Psychosomatically Erasing You
by Captain Vox
Summary: John thinks that perhaps he's spent too much time here with Sherlock. Sherlock thinks that if John leaves, who is going to tell him, "Bit not good"? M for language and later adult content. It gets dark. You're forewarned.
1. Chapter 1

There was a very specific moment where John realized that, perhaps, he'd been at this with Sherlock Holmes for a tad too long. It was the absence of something, really, that set him off. He supposed that it was good the he was, at the very least, still exhibiting some sort emotion beyond the cool scientific gaze that his flat-mate gave the world but that moment of absence of compassion rattled John more than he could have believed.

They'd been standing there, Sherlock and John, looking down at the body of a man in the mid-ages of his life, and John realized suddenly, he wasn't feeling what he normally felt. There wasn't a slight sickness in his stomach that marked a sadness about the situation. There wasn't a frown on his face as he looked into the man's face to try and put together a quick story on the man's life. In fact, he hadn't really put together a story for the man, just left it at "he's dead". Deviating from the compassionate norm he'd carefully marked each murder encounter with since he'd met Sherlock meant something profound. Something, well a bit not good. That's what bothered John most. If he was no longer able to tell himself what was a bit not good, who the hell would tell Sherlock who, let's be honest, needed it now and again.

That was why John was now standing in the kitchen staring at the experiments that littered their kitchen table, the microwave, fridge and any other accessible surface that Sherlock deemed necessary for the "importance of science". John sucked in a deep breath and tried to shove the inner image of Sherlock's face from his mind. That was the root of this whole problem, Sherlock. There was a good reason that he'd become so lax and unemotional around the bodies. Bodies! He remembered a time when he'd called each a victim, or at least a person. Now they were just a crime scene, something to be poked and proded as a means to the end of some great mystery.

But it was Sherlock's fault! That damned face. Every bleeding word he spoke. Each mannerism which John could no longer pretend not to have memorized. Though to many, Sherlock was a man unreadable, to John Watson, he was just a man of science and therefore utterly predictable. The problem was, you had to _know_ the man to be able to predict him. He wasn't unpredictable, just peculiar. Once you got his peculiarities down, guessing what he would bring into the house next was simple. That John had not only grown accustomed to Sherlock, but seemed to have picked up that cold attitude of his as well bothered John.

He needed something to distract him or he might start slipping into the sociopathic madness that Sherlock did on a weekly basis. Tea. A good cup of tea would settle John. He could sit down with a cup of Jasmine or maybe Chamomile and go over the details of the case, go over the details of each _person_ involved, including the _victim._ He was still there, still knew that his lack of personal thoughts was "a bit not good" so there was still time for corrections to this cold attitude he was picking up.

Wasn't there?

Opening the fridge the first thing John noticed was that there was no milk. The second thing was that there was a severed hand with a gash and an infestation of little grubs. Sucking in a shocked breath he also sucked in the smell of rancid, infected, dead skin and he balked. Stepping back and slamming the door, a fit of rage crept up very quickly on him. It was surprising really, how angry he was. Yanking the fridge back open he lifted the grub-hand and threw it in the trash. Turning around to the sight of the other experiments only tossed more wood to the building inferno that was his mind's temper. Grabbing each piece, every little carefully collected piece of documentation, scrap paper, thawing this and that body parts, chemicals, _everything_- he chucked it all around the house. He kicked and threw and cursed. Hell part way through he'd even grabbed the gun from his lower back and fired three consecutive shots into the spot of the couch that Sherlock loved to curl up on, muttering something about "unrequited" and "ignorant" and "beautiful".

God did he look like a madman. God did he feel like one. He felt like he was losing it all, like somehow what Sherlock had tucked in his head was a disease that was spreading to John. He was infected with this driving need for danger, for something to do, for the complete lack of boredom to the point of madness and anger and lack of human compassion.

_You feel for him, you'd do anything for him._ The thoughts were in his head faster than John could keep up with. _Yeah well, damn him!_ He fired back at himself, what he hoped was internally and not out loud.

"Damn who?" It was Sherlock's voice from the doorway.

No such luck, keeping the thoughts to himself. Turning around, cream jumper torn at one sleeve and gun in his opposing hand, John Watson looked at his flat-mate with washed out gray-hazel eyes. "Never mind. It doesn't matter," John said before turning away heading very quickly for his room. Now that he was calmed down, he had the sudden sane thought about what his flat-mate might just do when he discovered all of the little projects that kept him sane were destroyed.

"John, I brought milk sin-" Sherlock's voice fell to nothing as he stepped into the living room, watching John's retreating back. "And just what the hell did you shoot? Do you understand the importance of these projects, John? What in hell has gotten into you?" Sherlock shouted, running after John. Their positions were quite reversed for the first time since they'd met. Normally it was John trying to fish the gun from Sherlock's hands, John trying to put the house back together, John not Sherlock doing the yelling at the other for something inhuman and "a bit not good".

"You, Sherlock. That's what's gotten into me. I can't think at the moment, not properly. I'm…infected or something." He shouldn't be spewing what he was.

Sherlock now stood in the doorway to John's room and narrowed his translucent silver eyes on John and growled, "You're an idiot, that's what you are. I'm not _infectious_. You're just being incredibly dense. I can't _believe_ what you've done to the flat. It's my job to destroy things."

John was at the closet, grabbing a duffle bag and tossing it on the bag. He turned to look at Sherlock. "Yeah well, you have. Me," John said, gun still perched in his hand as he waved it around with each sentence. The hand motions were a frantic physical part of the mental breakdown and he probably shouldn't have had the gun to begin with. "I know, I _chose_ to do this, to follow you and I jumped every time you mentioned danger. So it's my fault, too. But I can't keep doing this Sherlock. I need to get away for a while, get my thoughts and feelings back together, back to 'me'." John was spouting without thinking, of course that was nothing new. He was used to spilling his thoughts all over the conversational table like a blundering child. But he was being insensitive. Shit, he couldn't even talk about his growing insensitivity without being so. Sherlock was a delicate being, despite his higher intelligence and John knew that. John knew that more than anybody, aside from Mycroft probably. He should care that he was ripping out what ever sort of heart Sherlock had.

The man laughed. He actually laughed! Sherlock stood there, laughing, staring at John as he grabbed clothes and stuffed them into the military grade duffle bag. "John, you know you're doing that out loud?"

Normally, it was things like that which would cheer him up almost immediately, or else tinge his cheeks pink and made him mutter apologies. Now it just frustrated him. Sherlock wasn't seeing how serious this was, he was acting like a child with John's emotions. "That's it right there. There's more than just me being upset about not feeling compassion." He'd dropped the clothes to wave the gun some more, pointing it between the ceiling, John's own chest, and perhaps once even unintentionally leveling it off at Sherlock. "It's dealing with you brushing aside my feelings. I thought it was different, with you and me. It isn't though, is it?" John shook his head and looked at his hand.

Sherlock was staring intently at John making him suddenly feel like one of those projects John had destroyed only moments ago. "You're…leaving?" Sherlock asked in an exasperated tone. "That's the stupidest idea I've heard in a while, John. You were miserable before you came here." He shook his head and stomped out to the living room.

John heard crashes, things moving around, and a sudden flop on the couch. The click of a computer turning on let him know that Sherlock had taken to the couch with his laptop, oblivious or uncaring of the gunshots to the seat. More than likely uncaring. There wasn't much Sherlock didn't notice. Heaving a heavy sigh, John tucked away the last of what he needed and moved out into the main room. He was right, Sherlock was there on the couch, legs tucked upward in a V and holding the laptop. He was pounding away furiously at the keyboard and he didn't look at all pleased. Good. And a bit not good. "Sherlock," he said in a baritone murmur.

"Hmm?" the man mused from the couch, not bothering to lift his head.

It was frustrating yet again. Everything was a mess and backwards at the moment and that felt wrong in John's chest. Still, he'd made up his mind and he had to go, at least for a while. Harry and he had been chatting lightly on the blog so perhaps he'd go to see her, see how she was doing. She _was_ family after all and he should at least be friendly towards her, no matter how bad off they'd been with each other. "I'm leaving. I'll call you when I've figured things out, all right?"

"Mmm," Sherlock groused.

"That's really all you have to say about this?" John gasped, putting a lot of weight on the leg he hadn't had a limp in. The other one, the psychosomatically fucked up one was actually throbbing. He rather felt like limping his way out of the place. Funny how attached his leg and emotional state were.

Sherlock looked over at John finally and heaved a massive shrug of his shoulders. "What's the point? I've tried asking you to stay, you won't. Used to it though. So, goodbye Watson."

Distance. That's what saying his last name did. Funny, Sherlock was always distant with everyone but…no, he'd grown quite close to John hadn't he? And now, John was abandoning him so he placed that distance back. Perhaps John was making the wrong choice. _Bodies. Laughing at the crime scenes. Needing new crime weekly._ No, it was a hard choice, but it was the right one. They both needed space and John could create that. "All right, well could I use your phone?"

Oddly, Sherlock stood up, setting the computer aside and stared over at John. He didn't say anything, just tossed his head upward ever so slightly as if to say, "come get it." So he did.

John walked over to Sherlock, standing in front of him looking slightly up. Damn, he even hated being shorter than the man. John felt in every way inadequate at the moment. He slowly reached out, knowing somehow that Sherlock wouldn't stop him. Sticking his hand into Sherlock's pocket, he pulled out the phone. His eyes remained on Sherlock's odd silvery eyes, not able to look away from the selfish, uncaring, completely stupid, and yet utterly loveable man. Holding the phone up to his mouth, he hit the button on the side and the shrill, automated tone sounded, "Please say a command."

"Delete contact," John said and watched one emotion creep into Sherlock's face. Funny, he'd never really been able to get surprise out of Sherlock, not this confused surprise at least. Mostly he got a smile here or there when he'd been exceptionally clever or had gloated over what Sherlock had done. It was sickly pleasing to see this new sad surprise pass over his face. Perhaps Sherlock would finally feel what John did. "John Watson."

"Contact erased," the voice answered back to him. John did not bother handing Sherlock the phone, he merely stuffed it back in the man's pocket. Then he grabbed his duffle bag and moved around the shocked detective and out of the door, out of Sherlock's life.


	2. Chapter 2

Psychosomatically Part Two

Going to Harry's place had been an awful mistake. Distance is what kept them civil, he realized all too quickly. "Look, Harriet, I really don't want to talk about Sherlock." John was sitting at the table, hands wrapped protectively around a cup of black coffee.

The woman rolled her eyes and flopped into the chair at the dining table. "You obviously like him. I don't see why you left. He was doing you good. You'd been writing in your blog about all the fun times you've had, your limp is suddenly gone two days after you meet him, and I see what goes through your eyes when you mention his name." Harry laughed, a sound surprisingly womanly. "You're both bleeding ignorant."

"What's that s'pose to mean?" John asked. He had grown to associate such blatant insults to his intelligence from Sherlock. It was disconcerting to be hearing it from his sister. He furrowed his brows at her, creating creases in his forehead.

Harry leveled a thick glare John's direction, setting her tea cup down rather precisely. "Just what I said, ignorant."

"Oh sod off," John said pushing away from the table and snatching up his coffee. _It's too early for this; seven a.m. was much too early for arguing_. John went to the guest room he'd claimed as his until he found his own place. That would be much sooner than originally thought, he was sure of it. Sitting at his computer and turning it on to access his blog, John felt odd. What was he supposed to write about? Especially knowing how many people now read it. He'd been shy at first, just writing about the interactions with Sherlock and the cases, but that had come naturally. Writing about how he'd run out on the one person he had strong feelings for and then to have Mycroft and the whole of the Yard to read about it was…unsettling. It wasn't their business what happened between him and Sherlock.

He sat his coffee off to the side and started to type away anyhow. It was mostly about Harriet, and how they'd already started to argue. That's a bad sign. John couldn't stay here; he and Harriet would be worse off for it. But where…

_Afghanistan…_

The thought was so quick had John not been sitting there alone, the thought my have passed by unnoticed. Perhaps that was a good idea though. As John sat at the computer, left hand resting on the desk top, he noticed the tremor was back. He clenched his fist up tightly and flung it out, attempting to shake the tremor away. Mycroft had been right, of course, and now that the stress involved in living with Sherlock was gone the tremor was back and John's leg was bugging him again.

"And they said Sherlock had problems," John breathed out, hitting his tense left hand against his right leg. He would have to get in touch with the Army commander and try to get back in. That would ease up some of the tension he was sure. It would certainly keep him too busy to be thinking about Sherlock Holmes.

The silence was piercing through Sherlock's eyes and ears deep into his brain, creating pinpricks of bright red in his thoughts. It was too oppressive. There was a violin somewhere in the flat. But where? Sherlock's eyes shot to the floor next to his chair. It was not there, only the remote. Pointless telly… It had to be here somewhere and _that_ would break the silence. At least for two days. Maybe three if Mrs. Hudson didn't interrupt him.

Clean, the place was too clean and empty now that John wasn't here. Sherlock pursed his lips tightly and swept around, royal blue dressing robe flying out behind him. Damn that violin! It couldn't have just flown away. Sherlock uprooted the couch cushions and stared down at the dirty tan canvas beneath. So that's where the cotton deterioration experiment had gone. It was sometimes hard to locate them when they didn't smell. He huffed and stamped a foot onto the hardwood floor like a child. Perhaps his room.

Drifting towards it in a flurry of blue robe and book-pile-dodging feet, Sherlock pushed open his door and peered into its dark depths. He could make out the random stacks of books, newspapers, journals- everything _but_ his violin. The bed was a mess; the comforter piled at the foot of it covered in what looked like blood. Of course it wasn't really, just a close fabricated substance for the sake of noting drying patterns of blood spill on different materials. Still not a violin.

He turned around and nimbly vaulted a book stack before thundering up the stairs to John's room. Old room, there was no John, not any more. Sherlock's long instrumental fingers wrapped around the handle and his arm tensed as he was about to open the door. _Just push it open, he may have taken it to get you to stop._ His hand and arm shook slightly but the wooden door eased open with the tell-tale slight squeak in the lower hinge. It needed to be oiled. John normally- There was a violin perched against the middle of the headboard of John's bed. The bow rested at the violin's base, the horse hair loosened in its resting state.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow skywards and moved in. There were no book stacks in this room, no blood stains, projects, or anything of the kind. In fact, it was rather dull and bland. "And _I'm_ the sociopath?" He let out a huff of breath. Perhaps the room had driven John away. It was so dull and lifeless, much unlike the lifestyle John liked to follow. "Room, don't be ridiculous- I need rosin."

He lifted the violin like a parent would cradle a newborn. Sherlock smiled and set the violin under his chin, enjoying the familiar bite of plastic under his jawbone. He held it there in expertise as he raised up the bow to tighten. Holding the bow in one hand and re-cradling the violin he trapezed his way out of the room and took the stairs in quick vaults. His body craved the feel of the chair. He needed to graft himself into its essence again and create something. Perhaps he needed drugs for this. An original symphony was floating –note by note- before his eyes and if he couldn't keep his hyper state of mind going he might let those chords float away.

Quick detour to the kitchen cupboard that housed many of the components of his experiments, including the big box of nicotine patches. He thumbed through them and grimaced. No, Nicotine helped thoughts, not his visual symphony. He pushed the box aside and looked into a bin. Of course John hadn't known what he kept in here. He would have whinged about it had he known. Grabbing the drug of choice, Sherlock made quick work of getting it into his system and his eyes popped wide. Yes! There it was, the notes were still there but laid out on a line of sheet music right before his eyes. Beautiful. This would pull back that pin-pricking silence, retrieve the little needles from his brain and make sure nothing leaked out. You could plug that sort of wound with music, of course.

John was sitting comfortably in a large chair before an Army psychiatrist. The nameplate on the desk proclaimed the name "Dr. Wright" in black across the copper background. "Heh," John mouthed under his breath. He pulled his gray-hazel eyes from the block letters and up to the actual doctor, who'd asked him a question. "Yes, I have the medical doctor's testimony to my health right here." John lifted his hand and held out a folder to Dr. Wright.

"Good. It would seem, with this testimony along with my chats with Ella, that you're very likely to get back in, Dr. Watson. We're very much in need of some good doctors back in Afghanistan." Dr. Wright smiled. "I just have to go over some of the usual questions, you know how it is."

John nodded and folded his hands in his lap. His hand trembled less when it was tucked underneath the other.

"You've kept quite the company after you left the military. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, DI Lestrade…seems you couldn't keep to a quiet life." Dr. Wright smiled. "It is hard to adjust back to civilian life, isn't it?"

"Yes, a bit. With the excitement the Holmes family provided though, it wasn't so bad." John twisted one of his fingers tightly and kept his voice steady.

Dr. Wright nodded and marked something, a quick scribble in a notebook, then looked back up. John's eyes strained to remain on him and not drift to the notebook. "You've helped out Scotland Yard with a lot of cases, kept in practice as well. That's good."

John nodded again and felt his nerves jumping high. His knee was throbbing and he bent it, looping his foot around the leg of the chair tightly. _Tedious, I'm bored. I wish he'd hurry this up, or get to a damn point…_ He took in a significant suck of breath. "Mhm."

"Why are you going back, John?" Dr. Wright asked. He was leaned forward in the chair and his fingers were interlocked, lying out across the desk.

The question made him pause, made him think again. _I can't stand not feeling like me. I need to get away from _them_ and gain my sanity by, apparently, blowing things up._ "I don't feel as useful here. The surgery is nice enough, but I'm overqualified." Sarah had been right about that. Perhaps she'd been right about a lot of things…

Dr. Wright smiled. "That makes sense. Very good reason and we could definitely use you. The MERT teams there are really lacking in trauma doctors."

"That would be perfect. I can handle working under the combat conditions." Hearing himself, adding his internal thoughts, John wondered if he was actually making a wise decision. _Too late to back out now. And what would you do anyway? Move back in with-_

"I have a bit of paperwork for you to fill out, a recruiter you need to meet with, and then you should be all set. I'll fax my recommendation to the recruiter and get a hold of your new commander." Dr. Wright pulled open a drawer with a loud yank and produced a fairly thick stack of papers. "Technicalities, you know how it is."

Being a doctor, yes, John knew all about the paperwork that went along with the profession. People's conditions, both physical and mental, had to be documented carefully. A lot to do with pay, medals and the like. He nodded his head again and reached out silently for the stack. There wasn't much more for John to say, so he offered a warm smile then took the papers and stood up. He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and headed for the door. As he wrapped his hand around the handle he paused and turned, glancing over his shoulder. "Thank you, doctor."

"Glad to help," Dr. Wright replied.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock growled at his brother from his reclined state on the couch. His phone was lying on his chest, speaker on. "I don't want you to come over here. You're missing the basic point here. Will you just hold on one moment and let me speak?"

The voice on the other end was smooth, calm, and glistened with amusement. "Sherlock, I think it is in your best interest were I to come over and make you tea. You are obviously distraught over John's absence and it is the responsibility of the older brother to help you out."

"I- I don't want _you_ here. I know you can order John out of the Army and back here." Sherlock lifted the phone and held it nearly to his lips before yelling into it. "You control the whole damn government, get me John Watson!"

"Tush, tush Sherlock. It's not polite to yell. Mummy taught you better than that," Mycroft crooned. "I'll be over in just a moment. You keep still."

When the phone clicked at Sherlock he tossed it across the room. Hearing a satisfying _clunk_, he rolled over onto his side and wrapped the royal blue dressing robe about him. If Mycroft were coming over he at least wouldn't have to look at him from this position. It truly was just a moment before the door eased open and the heavy footfalls, marked pointedly with the _tap_ of the end of an umbrella, announced Mycroft's presence. Sherlock just listened, hearing his brother make his way across the flat and to a chair just a ways from Sherlock's brooding couch.

"Oh little brother, how your sociopathic antics do amuse me." Mycroft's voice was a flutter of musical notes as he practically sang to his brother. "You know very well that John Watson is not yours. Didn't we have a talk already about owning people?"

The scoff from the couch was muffled by cushions but still unmistakable. "You own Britain. What's the difference? He's only one man."

"Ah, 'only one man' who can put you completely off your game. It's rather a convenience for me, wouldn't you agree? Now I don't have to worry about my baby brother running around getting himself strapped to bombs." Mycroft shifted in the chair, pressing back further into the worn in cushion. He reached out with his umbrella and firmly stuck the point of it into Sherlock's hip. "Come now, manners Sherlock. Honestly, must we go back to grade school teachings?"

"Mycroft, unless you're here to discuss getting John back where he belongs, I'd much rather angst in peace. Besides, John was the one strapped to the bomb." Sherlock pulled up from the couch, bored with the position. "And keep that bloody umbrella from my hip, hmm?" He dropped his robe finding it irritating and restraining while his brother was here. He couldn't believe the man was invading his space again. God, now all that was needed was another fake drugs bust and Anderson's ridiculous face then Sherlock would be in the mind-frame for murder. Of the actively pursuing murder variety, _not _actively pursuing a murderer. "Where is the damned phone…" Sherlock flew across the room, scanning the ground and coming up cellular-less.

"Here," Mycroft voice floats through room. "It was near the chair." He's holding out Sherlock's phone in stout, steady fingers. His eyes are sharply focused on his brother as he waits.

"Mmns," Sherlock muddles the possible gratitude. He runs his finger over it, bringing it to life and checks his messages. He searches rather pointedly for one number- nothing. Damn that it wasn't still in his phone. "Computer…" He grabs the laptop, not giving the minutest of glances at Mycroft. "Hmm, problems with Harry. Good- but Afghanistan- Mycroft, today. It has to be today."

Mycroft takes in a deep breath and lets it out in slow noisy huff. "No, Sherlock. I'm sorry."


	3. Chapter 3

Oppressive heat. It was eating John's brains- frying them up and eating them. He had to force himself to think, to help, to feel. Good.

The restlessness was back. It was different than what Sherlock'd felt before. He couldn't place this feeling, couldn't reason it- his chest hurt, he put the heel of his palm to the center of it and rubbed. Not so good.

John found competence. He found usefulness. He found that eyes were trained on him and waiting for what he had to say, waited for him to save them. That wasn't so normal.

Sherlock hadn't eaten in sixteen hours, hadn't slept in forty-eight. Well – forty-seven hours, fifty-three minutes and twenty-two seconds as of…now. That was normal.

"Amazing," someone said over John's shoulder as he stitched up some poor soul's gut. He'd live- John was a great doctor. John didn't like the sound of someone saying praises he had often given Sherlock. Those words weren't theirs, they were his- for _him_.

"Hey Freak," Donovan's voice was loud. Sherlock cringed. It hurt his head. His chest hurt again. He'd much rather hear John tell him how amazing his 'work' is. After all, he had started doing it all just for that reason- for him.

John Watson had been wrong. There wasn't a voice there to tell him, "No John, you're being stupid. Look at it closer, like this." There wasn't a voice to reassure him in any way. The blood was too much; even pressing his hands to the wound it was pouring out too quickly. He needed to get the rest of the crew onto the Chinook and back to the base. This was too much for a trauma doctor, a paramedic and a nurse. The fire they were under was too heavy for the Chinook to stay much longer. If they didn't get on the chopper, they were done for. "Blaine!" he yelled out for the paramedic who was cowered down, hands tucked around his head, a few feet away. "Help me move him."

It had been John's damn fault. He should have seen the ambush- he could see every damn little clue to a murder when Sherlock stood next to him but he couldn't see a group of insurgents lying metres away waiting to attack?

The unit was held down under a blaze of bullets and bodies he couldn't save. Then pain, searing was a good word even though he heard it from the mouths of many a wounded soldier. It was accurate- a bullet really tore a searing, burning wound through your body. It seemed to shatter his entirety in mind filling pain.

He had to let go, he realized, and get to the Chinook if he wanted to live, to continue to save others, or if he wanted to see Sherlock Holmes again. John looked down into the man's face, John's hands pressed deep into his stomach with blood pooling around his fingers, and he froze. The man was dead. Probably had been for the last few minutes of John's panic. Jerking his head upwards he caught sight of Blaine charging blindly for the Chinook's open backend.

Pushing off of the leg that didn't have a gaping hole in the thigh, John lifted himself mostly upright and ran. He ran as fast as his broken body could manage. Once he hit the dusty metal floor of the Chinook a darkness overtook him. He must have had lost a lot of blood in that run for the Chinook.

When he woke up next he was in a hospital bed. The reversal was odd, lying in it instead of standing over it. Staying still he mentally checked himself. There wasn't too much pain if he was lying still: a slight dull ache in his leg and a small tremor in his hand. The left one, of course. John shifted his leg and immediately regretted it. Well, that limp wouldn't be psychosomatic now. He wondered if he'd be able to get rid of it this time. He would probably need Sherlock. John heaved a heavy sigh. He knew he'd probably be discharged again, for his leg, and he knew exactly where he'd end up. Coming here may have ground some sense of morality back into him but there was something new bothering him.

John missed Sherlock, really missed him. John knew it probably wasn't a good thing as they didn't exactly have the healthiest of relationships. But then, where either of them exactly normal? Maybe the relationship they had wasn't healthy for others but for them- it kept them both sane.

"Bodies," he murmured to himself. Here they hadn't been bodies. They'd had names, faces and backgrounds. Here John had files on them, dog tags and could talk with them. Perhaps that's what he needed to do, make sure he was doing something with the victims. He was sure Lestrade wouldn't have a problem with him doing more work with the cases. He'd at least keep Sherlock tame.

God, he'd been a bleeding idiot, hadn't he? Leaving Sherlock alone…Sure the man had been working with the Yard alone before John came along but now that something had changed, was John really smart for leaving? There was so much that probably changed. Sherlock could get out of hand but John had been working on that. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that John had been slipping. Maybe he just needed some nights out with Lestrade to reground himself in a normal person's mind frame. He could go back to Sherlock, keep the man sane, watch crap telly with Mrs. Hudson, run around London solving murders for the Yard, and maybe start having drinks with Lestrade talking about the victims. "It's where I belong."

"Dr. John Watson?" A feminine voice drifted through his thoughts and John's eyes shot open.

"Yes, that's me." John struggled into a sitting position, careful not to jar his leg too badly. He couldn't quite bite back the grimace on his face.

"Hello, John. I'm Dr. Elizabeth State. It's good to see you awake and responsive."

So not good then- if responsive was a step up. "It's fine, we don't have play the niceties. I'm being discharged again, aren't I?" John smiled slowly, trying to let a feeling of disappointment aid his guess. He had to fight back the flood of relief at not needing an excuse to get out.

Dr. State's lips followed the slow progression of a sad smile and her head bobbed in a "yes", looking a lot like a bird.

"Figured as much, when I woke and moved the damn leg." He looked down at it and pushed the blanket out of the way to look at the bandages. "Can't just forget about the limp this time 'round."

"No, probably not. This one is not in your head, John." Dr. State reached out a hand and let it rest on his shoulder. It was a weak show of comfort that wasn't actually needed. Even if he did have a limp, John would cane his way around London following the sociopath who'd now consumed his thoughts.

John looked up at the woman with a question in his cocked eyebrow. "When do they ship me back?"

"Tonight, I believe. There's a plane coming in for a few others." A phone went off and she glanced at the bulky white thing. "I think that's for you. Your psychiatrist wanted a chat, since, you know- the leg." That small courteous smile was back at the corner of her lips.

"Right, thanks." John shifted to the edge of the bed and pushed up. It didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. In fact, it hurt a little less then when he'd first gotten his psychosomatic one. Interesting. He wondered what Sherlock would have to say about that. Probably something along the lines of "don't care" or "tedious". More than likely both. Limping just a few steps to the phone on the table he picked it up. "Dr. John Watson."

"Why hello, Dr. Watson. This is your new doctor; you can call me Dr. Jim!" The voice was happy, high pitched, and too damned giddy for John's sake.

"Moriarty. How did you get this number? If Sherlock is-"

"Don't be simple John, I didn't need to hurt him. You've done that quite well _for_ me." Moriarty laughed into the phone, loud and happy.

John bit down on his tongue to try and keep his temper in check. He unlocked his jaw once he tasted a burst of coppery sweetness. "What do you want then, hmm?"

"Oh Johnny boy, don't play coy. Obviously, you. You're so much _fun_ to play with. It's interesting to watch you be tough, to watch how Sherlock rushes in to save you. How you try to save _him._" John could hear something in the background of their conversation, perhaps a car.

"I'm all the way in Afghanistan, Moriarty. You're not going to be playing games while I'm here." He prayed the man didn't have the connections that Mycroft had.

Another laugh, this one chillingly close. John could swear it sounded as if the man was standing right next to him. "Oh Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. You're so naïve; I can see why he likes you. The emotions you show are interesting, unpredictable. You're unlike any other specimen. We'll have a lot of fun together, don't you think?"

"I think I'm ending this conversation, Moriarty. I don't have time for this." John hung up before the man could throw a protest verging on the sickly flamboyant. John had no problem with gays, hell he was crushing on his flatmate, but that flittering and squealing that Moriarty took up would set his teeth to gnashing.

With a steadying breath, John limped back to his bed and fell down onto it. It creaked and shook until his weight settled. "What a disaster…"

"That was awfully rude of you, John Watson."

John flew up in bed and looked into the doorway. There stood Jim Moriarty and a team of what looked like some secret Black Ops team, right out of some action movie. _Shit, this wouldn't end well…_ John debated briefly getting up and charging the man, gun leading the way, but then couldn't figure out _where_ his gun was. Probably taken from him and set with his stuff while he wouldn't need it in the medical tent being in this shape. _Damn…_

A million thoughts flew through his head at once. Dr. State had to be around; Mycroft wasn't keeping an eye on him; he needed a gun; his leg hurt; Sherlock wouldn't know what happened… Then before he could throw out some wise crack, two men rushed forward and snatched him under the arms. How the hell they were getting away with this in a military base, John would never know. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. Between the power Mycroft and Moriarty had over the government and all other seedy operations, John was afraid for the world all of a sudden. Small countries beware, there was a sociopath and psychopath on the loose. Hmm, was Mycroft a sociopath like his brother? Perhaps not. John turned his thoughts back to the present situation to notice the butt end of a very big riffle coming around and down to the back of his skull.

John opened his eyes to darkness but his ears pricked as the low sound of…something reverberated his ear drums. Music, it was music. The tune was old, cheerful, maybe from the twenties. It was disconcerting, set his teeth to gnashing. If this was Mycroft's doing, he would _not_ be apologizing for leaving Sherlock.

_It's a lovely day tomorrow,  
tomorrow is a lovely day.  
Come and feast your tear dimmed eyes,  
on tomorrow's clear blue skies._

Blinking a few times as the lyrics passed through his mind, John tried to move. Lifting his arms he heard the rattle of chains and felt the bite of heavy metal into his wrists. Not Mycroft, Moriarty. The events of the…whenever he'd been taken flooded his mind. Putting his hands on the ground, John felt since he couldn't see through the darkness. The ground was cool, cement, mostly flat but with a few worn flaws. Basement then, more than likely. That meant he wouldn't be heard. Or seen. He wouldn't be found. His heart was starting to pick up in beat, pumping blood through his panicking body- fueling the adrenaline high.

John breathed, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He remained sitting, hands pushing into the ground. He needed to keep calm, keep his temper in check, and think. Closing his eyes, since they weren't doing much good anyway, John listened. It was quiet, but for the music. _Even though your heart is weary, and every little thing looks gray._ Great, Moriarty; he truly was a twisted bastard. He took in a deep breath and the damp, musky smell that greeted his senses only backed up his guess about a basement. There wasn't much else to smell, nothing coming from upstairs, nothing like cologne suggesting Moriarty was there with him. Tendering his shot right leg, John climbed to his feet and kept his back against the wall. The chains were bulky but he could move with them. They even reached a few strides away from the wall. He took just one more step, testing just how far he could go and his arms were pulled back, shoulders popping upwards in a painful direction.

He couldn't go much further than six or seven steps then, but he hadn't come into contact with anything around that area. Nothing to work with. John really wished the lights were on. He'd prefer to see what was down here, to see where he was, to see if there was even a slight chance that he would be able to get out of this.

A door to his right shuffled open with a shudder and John's head snapped up to it. The light from its entryway illuminated a nicely crafted wooden staircase. It was a darker wood, reddish, expensive maybe. A figure very familiar stood at the top, shoes shined and suit immaculate. Jim Moriarty. He descended the stairs slowly, taking a pause as each foot came in contact with each lower step. The deliberate steps were infuriating and John had to take to biting down on his tongue again to keep from screaming at the man. John had a lot of patience, living with Sherlock had proved that, but in a case like this he wanted things over and done with. If Moriarty was going to torture him for a while then kill him, he just wanted to get right to the pain. He didn't have the personality for foreplay.

"Dear Dr. John Watson, it is ever so nice to see you awake." Jim reached out a flicked something on the wall next to him near the bottom of the stairs.

Light shocked John's eyes and he cringed back, taking a few limping steps. His right leg was throbbing but he ignored it. "Where are we?"

Moriarty laughed. "London, of course. I'm not one for going too far from home for too long. Now, let's see that leg of yours, shall we?" Moriarty tucked his hands in his pockets and stood a few steps from where John could reach. His eyes were riveted on John's leg.

John couldn't help but follow the gaze and look down. There was a bit of blood through the bandage and slacks. Hmm, he was in a new pair of fatigues and his brown military t-shirt. His mouth twitched as he reached a hand down to test the tenderness of the wound. It stung when he put pressure on it. He probably tore the stitching when Moriarty had snatched him. The sound of snappy footsteps made him look up and then step back into the wall.

Moriarty paused and slowly grinned at him, showing a fine row of teeth. "Now Johnny boy, don't be so bashful. I'd like to get that cleaned up for you."

"Hmph," was all John managed to muster.

"Oh come now, it's damp down here. It could get infected." Moriarty pouted at him, lips turned upside down and quivering just slightly.

He really knew how to annoy John. He was right though; John was bleeding through and the basement wasn't the perfect environment for healing. "How about you just give me the medical kit and I'll fix it myself?"

"Very clever, but no. I'll be right back, you just hang in there Johnny boy." Moriarty turned around and headed up the stairs once more.

The light was left on and now that John wasn't focused on Moriarty standing in front of him, he could get a good look at the room. The wall he was at was to the left of the stairwell. On its right side was a loop of metal built into the ground and a significantly shorter chain than the ones binding John's wrists now. Directly across from the stairs was a metal table with leather straps. Off to the far side of that table was a medical cart. John could only imagine what was resting inside of it.

Footsteps back at the top of the stairs, three sets, made John's head snap up in furious attention. Moriarty was descending once more with two of those Black Ops guys in tow. Their faces were hard set; one had a broken nose and the other had deep set eyes. Moriarty's pristine suit looked so out of place in this whole scenario. That smile perched delicately on his lips looked so perfectly correct. John was glad he couldn't read minds. It might be better not knowing what was going to happen next.

The two men approached John after a quick nod from Moriarty. They came up on either side and while John thought about fighting his way out, their grips on his arms were too tight. "Hold him still, wouldn't want to mess anything up." Moriarty made his way over, swinging a set of keys on one of his fingers. "Hold still Doctor, and we'll get you set up on the table there so we can look at your leg."

John waited, knowing that Moriarty would put that key in the locks on his arms. John might be able to fight his way out when they attempted the transfer. Hearing the lock click open, his wrists creaked in soft relief. Then he was being thrust forward. His leg stumbled and he found himself faltering forwards, with no balance to even attempt escape. They kept pushing him, not allowing him to keep good footing and the pain in his leg would have kept him from stepping down on that right foot anyway. He was quickly laid out on the table- throat, chest, wrists and ankles tied down with the leather straps.

Once he was in position, mind on fire from the pain in his leg, the two men glanced at Moriarty and took their leave. Moriarty made his way to the medical cart and pulled open a drawer. He walked around the side of the table and came to rest at John's leg, holding something at his side. Lifting his hands, he pulled up a large pair of scissors. John tensed immediately as Moriarty gripped at the cloth of his pant leg, above the wound in his thigh. Moriarty put the scissors to the fabric and cut it away, revealing the bandaged area. "Don't be so jumpy, Johnny. I told you, I wanted this fixed up didn't I?"

"Sorry if I'm not up to believing you," John said watching as Moriarty cut the rest of it away, leaving most of his leg bare and exposed. It didn't look so bad, even when Moriarty cut away the bandage. That was good. It looked to be healing.

Then Moriarty was back to the medical cart, riffling through another drawer. He was back with a suture needle and heavy thread. This was going to hurt. John closed his eyes and listened, waiting to feel the sharp prick of the needle into his tender flesh. He set his teeth hard against one another and counted in his head. At twenty-three he felt it, the dig of a needle, right at the top end of the wound. And it became a rhythm- back and forth, in and out, back and forth. He grimaced, gasped a few times, but kept his eyes shut. At least it was getting restitched.

"Sherlock did this to you, didn't he?" Moriarty's voice cut through John's counting concentration.

"What?" John gasped out, not able to keep his eyes closed anymore.

"You left because of Sherlock. Your little mind couldn't handle what he was changing in you." Moriarty was practically sing-song at this point. To the beat of the newest song.

The tune playing behind the pain of the needle was upbeat and words were pouring into John's ears. _Rose of England thou shall fade not here. Proud and bright from growing year to year. _

Then Moriarty's voice again, _stitch-word, stitch-word, stitch-word._ "It's Sherlock's fault. He's not like everyone else. He was tainting your precious morality. He was changing you. Then you got blown up and you're here now, playing with me. We should thank Sherlock, shouldn't we?" Moriarty smiled and looked into the corner of the room. John's eyes followed and he saw a camera mounted in the corner, red light gleaming from one side. "Poor Sherlock, lost his little pet. It's all his fault for abusing his pet though. Now, now it's my turn to play. Tell him it's his fault, John. Tell him."

"No! It's not his fault. I'm the one who slipped- he's just so damned addictive. How's that his fault? And I just- fuck you." John didn't think he would lose his patience so soon. There was something about Moriarty that took away all his self-control.

Moriarty laughed and tossed the needle and excess thread onto the flat of the medical cart. "Good session John Watson. Now you get some rest. I'll be back down later with some dinner for you." He went to the stairwell, flicked off the light and ascended, shutting the door behind him. The music kept going.

John woke up still strapped down to the table. The ceiling light in the center of the room was bright and John had to squint his eyes to see clearly through the transfer of sleep-darkness to sudden lightness. There was something lightly smacking the side of his face. It was Jim Moriarty's hand. John jerked his head to the side away from the hand. Quickly his mind flew through a check over of himself. He was still in the brown t-shirt and the ripped fatigues. His dog-tags were dangling over the top of his neck where the leather strip wasn't covering skin. They felt oddly heavy against his dry throat. His leg was pleasantly numb.

Moriarty stood a few feet back now, watching eerily as John pulled himself fully into reality. "Good, let's get started shall we? I think we'll start with a question."

John stared up into the man's eyes, waiting. _Don't give him anything. If he's taping- If Sherlock sees... not a word, not a scream. Nothing. _His gray-hazel eyes were set staring into Moriarty's.

"Do you believe in God, Johnny Boy?" Moriarty gave a grim, contemplative smile as he waited for John to answer him.

John remained silent, clenching his fists together as he focused on listening and forming some sort of plan. If he was patient his leg would get stronger. He could base the passing of days by the meals that Moriarty brought down.

"There is no such as thing God, John. There is no such thing as good and evil. They're man-made conventions. Like the concept of heat and coldness. Cold is a lack of heat, evil is a lack of good- I think I'm lacking good, Johnny Boy. So this should be fun." He chuckled, not that flirty effeminate laugh he used with Sherlock. This one was dark, cruel, and certainly lacking heat.

John swallowed and went deep into his head to find his strength for what was to come. He heard Moriarty moving around the room, opening and closing drawers to the medical cart. Footsteps announced his presence to the right side of the table and John stopped breathing a moment, waiting. Warm hands curled around his fingers, turning his hand around and prying open his fingers. John's eyes flew open and he looked down, watching Moriarty's fingers move over his gun hand. "The tremor isn't in this one, is it? I know it's your gun hand, but your tremor is in the other…I wonder if we could make this one twitch…"

John felt his breath catch as Moriarty brought up a small sewing pin with a yellow ball covering the top. "Also, I'll pose my second question. When I get a straight answer, we'll move on." Moriarty looked up with that twisted grin. "Maybe." He sank the pin into the middle of John's palm.

A gasp was ripped from John's dry throat and his arm jerked. He didn't cry out though and his eyes were fixed on Moriarty. The question hadn't been posed yet. Good, then John could withstand this longer without worrying about accidently answering some Sherlock-damning question.

"Oh, don't worry. The question is coming Johnny boy. Don't let your resolve get too strong now. I want you to last, but I am a _busy_ man." He pulled the pin out of John's palm and a bead of red pooled at the marked point. The retraction of the pin sent a jolt of shock through John's body. John's hand shook when Moriarty dragged the sharp tip across the outside of his palm to his trigger finger. He stabbed it into the base of the pointer finger and John's arm jerked again. "So," he drawled slowly. "Tell me, tell me just how much you hate him. Sherlock Holmes. Tell me why you ran out. Tell me how you hate who he is." The pin was pulled out again and Moriarty danced it up to the middle joint, jabbing it in again.

John held his hand still this time, pain flooding his nerves with phantom fire and scrambling his mind. Sherlock was infectious, that's why. He wouldn't say it though. He didn't hate Sherlock. _Sherlock's not infectious, you're just an idiot._ He cringed when the pin sank into the tip of his finger. He could feel the warm bubbling of blood; rivulets of warmth playing on top of the fired nerves.

"Your hand is shaking Dr. Watson." Moriarty pulled the pin away, eyes fixed on the trembling hand. "How many pin pricks do you think, until you can't handle your gun as well?"

Grinding his teeth together, John looked up at the ceiling and tried to block out Moriarty's words. He could take the torture, it wasn't so bad. It was the questions, the thoughts Moriarty put into his head…

With a frustrated yell, Moriarty pushed the pin deep into the base of John's thumb. Blood surged from the wound and he let out a scoffing, satisfied bark of laughter. "Right, see you at dinner then." The light went out. John was left with pain in his hand and darkness for company.


	4. Chapter 4

When Moriarty spoke up this time, John noted the lights weren't on. No, that wasn't it- he was blindfolded. The fabric was lightweight but pulled taut around his head. Not a single bit of light was let through. "Johnny, tell me you hate him." Second day- it was the second day, roughly. John had to piss.

Then excruciating pain ripped through John's leg and spun his head. A very tight grip was wrapped around the wound, squeezing. John jerked his leg, trying to get the grip to loosen even a little bit. His hand found its way to John's knee and it held him still. Then something sharp was cutting the stitches away. It wasn't neat, not a good line, and he felt newly healing flesh ripping with the stitches. It shot jolts of electrical-pain from the tips of John's toes to his head. He clenched his hands, the pin-pricked one screaming in protest, and tossed his head backwards as he tried to keep himself from passing out. He fought the erratic breathing, keeping steady and keeping himself from shock. He needed something to focus on as he felt something tugging at the remnants of the stitches, pulling them away from the wound. Good and bad; would keep it clean but hurt like hell.

The music. A new song was playing. John focused on that…

_This is the Army Mister Jones,  
No private rooms or telephones,  
You had your breakfast in bed before,  
But you won't have it there anymore._

Moriarty really knew how to pick them. John grimaced and let them roll through his head, repeating in his head the lyrics he'd just heard. "You hate him for this, don't you Johnny. It's Sherlock's fault you're here. Not even his brother came to help you. You don't really think Sherlock cares that you're here, do you?" his voice was breaking through the music. John took a deep breath and counted the beats of the song.

_Do what the buglers command,  
They're in the army and not in a band._

Moriarty's fingers jerked inside the wound as they took out the last of the stitches. A new bout of pain rushed over John. "Well, this doesn't look good, John. Unfortunately, we're a bit limited on medical supplies. You see, they frown upon me stealing things from the lab. But there are _so_ many ways to clean a wound…" His voice trailed away from John and John figured he'd turned his back on him. It gave John a few moments to catch his breath.

John's ears strained as he heard something being opened. If he was quiet enough perhaps he could figure out what was in the container. He didn't have to guess for long. All of a sudden the sound of little pieces of something sliding over cardboard resounded in his ears and a very sharp, specific burn sizzled up his leg. Salt. Again, good and bad. It would clean the wound, to an extent, and it burned terribly. John couldn't help but cry out this time. His voice was raspy from lack of use and troubled sleep; it sounded familiar, like when he woke in a tent in Afghanistan.

A hand came down onto the wound and ground into it. Suffice it to say, John no longer felt like pissing was the top of his 'to do' list. "Just making sure, Johnny boy. You know how it is."

John was tired of hearing that. John was tired of the pain in his leg. There was no way he was going to be able to jump the rooftops of London if it wasn't given time to heal itself. There was no way Sherlock was going to take him back. He was just another case, another experiment, and this one failed. John had walked out and now he was broken, useless to Sherlock.

"Tell me, just how much do you hate the man?" Moriarty's voice broke through the pain in a soft, caressing set of notes.

"I hate him." John felt his chest pulse painfully but he ignored it. "I hate him!" The scream was piercing and echoed around the room.

Suddenly the straps were let loose from his body and two sets of hands were grabbing him up again. He hadn't even realized the others were in the room while this was going on. He ground his teeth and hated himself silently. He ignored the wetness on his cheeks as he focused on the feeling of being dragged off of the table. The blindfold was holding tight. He was back into the chains though, moments later. At least he'd have a chance to move.

"Good night, Doctor Watson. We'll come play some more tomorrow, hmm? I've got a new case for Sherlock tonight though. Oh, I shouldn't say that name, should I?" Moriarty left with a laugh. The sound of something clattering on a table jerked John's head upwards. The sound of three sets of receding footsteps calmed him down though. Sagging against the wall, hand and leg throbbing, John pulled the blindfold away.

A tray of food sat on a table he could reach despite the chains. It looked welcoming. There was also a bucket next to the table and John frowned. Nice loo. The thought of pissing all over Moriarty's floor briefly flickered through his mind, but John was more civilized than that.

At some point, maybe a few hours later, one of the Black Ops guys came down. The one with the broken nose. He deposited a few water bottles at the edge of where John could reach. Flicking the light off, he retreated back upstairs, leaving John alone and in dark silence. Silence, yes, they'd at least cut the music off. That was a privilege for his time spent with Moriarty apparently.

John judged the passing of the next two days by the shift of light from under the door at the top of the stairs. The chains were biting into his wrists rather painfully, the water was nearly gone, and the strong scent of ammonia was making his head hurt. The unpleasantries of being chained up in a basement were enough to make anyone go crazy. At least the camera wasn't on while he was stuck alone.

His thoughts were heavily on the last conversation with Moriarty. John didn't hate Sherlock. His rational self knew right well that it wasn't Sherlock's doing that had him here. In fact, he wasn't even sore at Mycroft for not having an eye on him. It was a relief to know the man hadn't been keeping such close tabs on him as to have a guard detail following him around Afghanistan. Certainly it would be helpful had he, but the past was over and John had something more to think about. There was no blame he could place on anyone outside of himself and Jim Moriarty.

When the door opened again, with a scuffing shudder, John looked up from his spot on the ground. His back was stiff as he'd been leaning against the wall for most of those two days. Putting his hands on the ground, he pushed himself upwards, relying heavily on his unharmed left leg to keep him steady. Moriarty was coming down with a set of keys and neither of those Black Ops brutes tagging along. Perhaps this was his chance at escape.

The two days and some water bottles had allowed John some time to clean up his leg and let it heal. It was stronger, if only a little, but enough so that he would be able to fight his way out. If Moriarty wasn't lying and they were, in fact, in London he'd be able to get away. He knew the streets pretty well after Sherlock had spent a whole three nights making John memorize the whole damn map. Not the "London A-Z" one; no, the one that Sherlock had drawn up including shortcuts and signs for cars.

Standing upright, shaking slightly, but hand perfectly still John watched Moriarty carefully. John blinked a few times, still slightly adjusting his eyes to the onslaught of light. Fortunately, he'd been interrupted by Sherlock in the middle of the night enough that he was able to adjust fairly quickly. He was beginning to realize just how much influence Sherlock had on his life.

"Johnny boy, it's good to see you again. Your leg is looking infinitely better. Fantastic." Moriarty stood at that point of the room that John could reach if he had his arms jerked back painfully by the shackles.

Stupidly, John lunged forward anyway. He hit the ends of the shackles just short of knocking into Moriarty. There was a painful _pop_ of joints in his shoulders but he smothered the yelp with a curse, "Bastard!" John snarled and shook the chains, throwing the pain from his leg into the cursing. "I'll put a fucking bullet between your eyes. I swear to God, I'll see you damn well dead."

Moriarty just clucked his tongue at him. "Dear boy, you're going to hurt yourself if you keep that up. Come now." He pulled out a handgun and leveled it to John's throat.

John's eyes flickered to it and the thought, _interesting,_ passed through his mind. He stood still and eased back so that his shoulders were sitting properly and he wasn't putting so much weight on his bum leg. "Right, fuck you, for good measure."

The laugh leaked through the room and sent a shiver down John's spine. "Alright, I'm going to unlock your cuffs. _You_ are going to walk over to that set there." Moriarty flicked the barrel of the gun to the single loop on the floor with the shorter chain. "I will shoot your other leg if you try anything stupid."

John scoffed but didn't tense as if to run. "Thought you didn't like getting your hands dirty, Jim."

"It's Doctor Moriarty, remember? Keep up with the role playing John, you were so good at it at the pool. I don't normally like to get my hands dirty but, Doctor, you and your sociopath _intrigue _me enough to make an exception." Moriarty leveled the gun off again and tossed John the keys. "Unlock yourself." Moriarty stepped back enough that he was out of the reach of John's arms.

John quickly found himself kneeling on the ground facing the wall, as Moriarty instructed. The chain that was connected to the ring on the floor was attached to manacles on his wrists. His wrist cuffs were attached to a shorter chain that went to a collar around his neck. He wasn't able to move rise any further. Turning his head as well as he could in the hunched kneeling position, John tried to look up at Moriarty standing in front of him. He was carrying a rod the length of the sword and was tapping it against his open palm.

It came down a little harder, with a resounding smack, and John cringed. "New question, John Watson. What is it about Sherlock Holmes that you love? Is it the danger, or the man?"

This wasn't how John wanted to confess. He didn't want to be forced and he'd prefer to be facing Sherlock when he said it. John tried to swing his head around to see the camera in the corner behind him. The crack of the rod across his jaw brought his head swinging back around to look at the wall he was mere metres away from.

His face stung smartly and he sucked in a breath, trying to balance mostly on his left leg. Moriarty started to pace around John. He raised his arm again and brought the wooden rod down across the back of his thighs. The shock of it made him clench his muscles. His leg was starting to hurt again. _Push it from your thoughts, focus._ John didn't cry out, yet.

"Oh dear me, I know what's wrong. We forgot our music!" He sounded so damned cheery. John heard his footsteps trouncing off towards a corner of the room where the music player sat. He snapped it on and out poured another military song.

_My sweetheart is a soldier.__  
__As handsome as can be.__  
__But suddenly they sent him__  
__away across the sea__  
__So patiently I waited__  
__until his leave was due_

"That's _much_ better, hmm? What's say we get back to the question." Moriarty moved up in front of John and placed the rod under his chin, lifting it up as high as it would go. John choked and coughed when the band around his neck tugged tightly. "Tell me you love him."

John heaved out a breath when Moriarty moved the rod away and blinked a few times. "What are you getting at? What exactly are you looking for from me?" His mind was struggling to find some game amongst all of what Moriarty was trying to pull from his mouth.

__ "Oh, no, no, Johnny Boy. It's not about you, not really. You're merely a means to an end." Moriarty smiled and brought the rod up and down across John's shoulder, the left one in which he'd been shot the _first _time he'd been released.

John gasped and tried not to fall forwards. It wasn't that painful, not compared to his leg, but he hadn't been expecting it so suddenly in their conversation. "What are you trying to get out of Sherlock in all of this? You already said yourself- he's not coming for me. I left him."

"Don't be dull, John." Moriarty had found himself behind John now. He fisted his hand into John's hair and pulled him upwards. He stuck the rod between the back of John's neck and the collar and jerked it backwards, pulling the collar tight across John's throat.

John coughed against the quickly tightened band around his neck. He could feel it rubbing the skin beneath raw. With a grimace he shot a glare at the ceiling he was being forced to look up at.

Moriarty set his chin on John's shoulder and whispered into his ear as John choked for breath. "And sit up straight. It's not awfully proper to slouch, you know." Moriarty let him go, and circled around John, letting a foot fall to each beat of the music playing.

_Lay down your arms (Lay down your arms)__  
__Lay down your arms and surrender to mine_

"You know as well as I that even though you broke poor Sherlock Holmes' heart, he'll still come for you." Moriarty paused long enough to smack across the front of John's thighs with the rod, then continued through John's groans and teetering, "I'm quite sure you're the only thing that's made that man's heart beat." When he came back around he placed the rod under John's chin again. "Tell me you love him."

John remained silent. He knew the camera was running and this wasn't how it was supposed to go. So he remained silent. The feel of the wooden rod bit into the soft skin under his chin but he welcomed the feel as a distraction to Moriarty's words.

Moriarty crouched down to look John in the eyes. He looked so pristine in that suit…perfect, evil, out of place. John wanted to spit at him, to ruin something about him, but he kept his teeth tightly together. An ache was setting in his jaw from all of his teeth-grinding, but again, yet another welcome distraction. "You know he's seeing all of this? I pull the discs and send them to him. Little bits, made up just for him. You should tell him, because right now all he knows is how much you _hate_ him."

John had heard that tone before, the same tone Moriarty had used to tell Sherlock he would burn out his _heart. _If Moriarty was right, then Moriarty had his hands on Sherlock's heart right now. While he wasn't burning, it still hurt. John wanted to tell Sherlock how he felt… he really did.

"Go to hell, _Jim_." John couldn't help the smile at the quick injection of annoyance. He knew already the usage of 'Jim' would bother the psychopath. At seeing Moriarty's eyes light up with a crazy anger, he suddenly regretted the smart remark.

_Come to the station, Jump from the train.__  
__March at the double, Down Lovers Lane.__  
__Then in the glen where the roses en-twine__  
__Lay down your arms (Lay down your arms)__  
__Lay down your arms and surrender to mine_

Not sure how long Moriarty had been bashing away his anger on John's body, John felt ready to pass out. His body was bruised, possibly some ribs were broken and the kneeling position was getting to be too much on his leg. Whether or not it was psychosomatic didn't matter. His leg was screaming at him, shooting fire through his body, and John wanted it to stop.

"Love…" he gasped.

Moriarty pulled his hand to a stop, the rod milimetres from John's jaw-line. "What was that?" he breathed out. He bent down to get a better look at John's face.

John rasped out what he hoped was a full sentence. "Love…him. I-"

"Louder John, the camera can't hear you." Moriarty was smiling pleasantly, tapping the wooden rod against the floor near John's bum leg.

"I love him." John forced out past the band on his throat, past the dry scratch inside, and past the enflamed pain in his chest.

"Who, John?"

"Sherlock."

John woke up on the table. He only knew this because of what he could see, being the ceiling and the medical cart. What he couldn't do was feel his body. He was sure he could move, at least his head, and swiveling that around he found Moriarty standing back against a wall staring at him. And that music- another song. Old and upbeat once again.

Another figure moved into place. It was feminine and familiar. Molly. She was holding a scalpel and her face was half-covered by a surgical mask. John felt panic rising in his chest. He didn't think Molly, of all people, would be in on something like this. John tried to yell out to her, to reason with her, but something was blocking it. He gnawed for a moment and found a ball gag stuck tightly between his teeth.

"Jim told me what you did, John. How you hurt Sherlock. How you took off to Afghanistan because you like to kill. I knew you were bad for him, you turned him away from me. Then your unit? Your own unit! How could you, John? You're a doctor." Molly's voice was shaking, tremors rocking her small frame with her anger.

John's eyes were wide and he shook his head. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Molly really hated him and that was a big surprise. He glanced at Moriarty and found the reason and cause behind her snap of sanity. Jim Moriarty was smiling from ear to ear and his eyeswere flooded with amusement. Whatever he'd told her was enough to snap that innocent little mind and now John was going to pay for it. He honestly hoped that Sherlock wasn't going to see this part.

"Oh Johnny Boy, we have to start with a question again, don't we?" Moriarty stepped up, wrapping an arm around Molly's waist to pull her back and keep her from lashing out with the scalpel too early. "Do you want me to stop? Do you want Sherlock to stop seeing this? Do you want to die?"

John watched Moriarty carefully and worked his mouth around the gag. Well, he wouldn't have to worry about shouting anything this time. His eyes flicked to the camera in the corner and he slowly closed them.

"No!" Moriarty screamed out and rushed to the head of the table. He grabbed John's head and John shut his eyes harder. "Open them, you're going to watch this." John felt his head lifted and then dropped to the table, but he didn't really feel it. It was like a nudge to a very numb body- a dull, water-flushed yell into flooded ears.

John's eyes snapped open, assessing how his vision was handling the hit to determine how hard his head smacked the table. Couldn't have been too hard as his vision was just fine. He watched Molly brandishing the clothing scissors. She put them at the base of his brown t-shirt and cut upwards, tearing the fabric away from his body. John saw it all like he was watching this happening to someone else. He couldn't feel any of it really. It was like the caress of water maybe. Or wind. There, but not really.

"Whenever you start to feel again, just scream. I will take care of you fairly quickly." Moriarty lifted a bottle of some sort of clear liquid. A needle was already poking through, waiting to be used.

Trying to swallow against the strap at his neck, John cocked his eyebrows and tried to breathe in hasty gasps of air. There was only so much he could drag through his nose. He wondered briefly if he could choke and drown on the saliva overproducing in his mouth. His eyes flickered back to Molly as she picked up the scalpel again and placed it at his shoulder. She dragged it down slowly to the bottom end of the breastbone and John watched. The blade dug deep into his skin and blood automatically bubbled around it, dripping downwards. He couldn't feel it. Christ, he couldn't feel it! How the hell was he still awake…

"It's a little drug my, uh, colleagues came up with just for me. Amazing what a consulting criminal can get his hands on." Moriarty blabbered away as Molly worked along his shoulder in the traditional Y-cut. She then took the scalpel and traced it along the scars of his bullet wound on his shoulder. "You know how it is, I was even able to get a last minute interior decorator to set up this little room. Just for you. I didn't have anything like this until opportunity arose. I rather like it, actually."

John flinched when the blade dug deeper into his scar, not that he could really feel it, but watching it cut into his skin was disconcerting. He could see that he was bleeding, that she was really _cutting_ him, but he couldn't feel it. _Be a dream, just a dream. You'll wake up in a stupid hospital bed and then get back to Sherlock…_

"Eyes!" Moriarty's scream jumped out at him and snapped his eyes back open. Molly had made quick work in those few wishful seconds.

John watched as Molly placed the scalpel at the top of his chest and dragged it down to his pant line, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake. John's breathing was coming in quickly, raising his chest up and down, and his left hand was shaking. He knew only because he could see out of the corner of his eye. Then it was at his leg, the one without the wound. She used the scalpel to cut into the pants and his leg. John's head spun as fabric and blood fell onto the table.

He watched as his body was starting to shake. There were a lot of cuts, there was a lot of blood. Then his vision started to waver and his eyes were rolling to the back of his head. He was going into shock. He heard Moriarty yell something, heard some crashing of instruments and felt a jab into the side of his neck. That one hurt, quite a bit actually.

A heady rush flew through him and John felt his heart jump. His breathing picked up and his vision returned to normalcy. Adrenaline. Moriarty had shot him up with adrenaline to keep him from passing out. He coughed against the ball gag, trying to suck in some much needed air and came up with nothing. Moriarty's fingers were at the object when he realized John was choking. Ripping it away, he allowed John to suck in a gulp of air. John coughed a few more times, his throat thick and compressing.

"Water, Molly. I don't want him out so quickly. There's too much left to do." Moriarty caught the water bottle she tossed at him. Opening the cap, he came back up to the head of the table. Gripping John's head, he pulled it back, "Open your mouth." When John complied he poured water down into his mouth. John choked on it at first but Moriarty was good with his timing and soon there was a pattern of pour-swallow-breathe, pour-swallow-breathe.

Moriarty ran his hand over John's forhead, brushing his hair back away from his face. "Alright Molly, continue. And John, we'll leave the gag out so that you can ask me."

"Fuck you, Moriarty." John was rewarded with a backhand across the face. Then he went back to watching the scalpel make valleys of sliced skin and blood across his body. His gray-hazel eyes were diming and growing murky as his mind became crazier and more muddled. John took another shot of that new drug Moriarty had been given and received another stab of adrenaline.

His eyes went to the camera again. John wondered how much of this Sherlock would see, how much he had seen; if he had actually seen any of it or if it was just one of Moriarty's twisted games. John stared for long moments until he realized feeling was seeping back into his body. There wasn't the feel of a blade to his skin, just the sharp sting of open wounds. He turned from the camera and looked around himself. Molly was gone, the bloodied scalpel laying unattended on the medical cart top and Moriarty standing next to it with his hands tucked into his pockets. "Ask me," he whispered.

John's eyebrows were crushed together, tears welling along the rims of his eyes, and his body was quivering with the pain of the gashes. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "No, I won't ask you." In John's mind he could see Sherlock's face, those liquid silver eyes, and the sharp intelligence that rested in both. _Please God, let me see him again. Just once, before you take me._


	5. Chapter 5

A/N - Posting without my Beta's read through, she'll skin me I'm sure, but being home for the summer restricts my internet use. Hopefully there aren't too many grievous errors. Also, hopefully I'll be writing more, sorry to anyone reading for the utter lag in updates. Enjoy :D

John's eyes fluttered beneath his lids as he pulled himself from a drug and exhaustion induced sleep. His body was sagging into the depths and comforts of a bed- one that felt greatly familiar. Inhaling deeply, John caught the scents of boot leather, gentle soap, and the slight tinge of gun cleaner- though these all had a slightly stale air about them. It's an air of disuse. 221 B, his old room. John's eyes snapped open.

He wasn't sure how he got here; he couldn't remember a single thing about leaving Afghanistan. The last John Watson could remember was passing out on the hard metal floor of a Chinook. Moving his arms out from under the comforter, John winced. His entire body ached. Odd, a shot to the leg shouldn't hurt all over. He was wearing a jumper and pair of jeans so he couldn't immediately see what was hurting him. Climbing out of bed, wincing in a breath, John limped heavily to the bathroom. Each step sent a jolt of tearing pain through his left leg.

Starting the water for a shower, John tried frantically to pull up memories of anything past limp-running to a Chinook. There were snatches of memories- being strapped down to a table, rather painful stitches, and music. Old music, upbeat, but he couldn't pull lyrics or more than a few notes from it. Most of the memories could be explained away by surgery for the gunshot.

Unzipping and popping the button to his trousers, John pulled them down carefully and froze when they hit the floor. His legs were covered in small, stitched up wounds while the major gunshot looked professionally stitched up but with non-military grade sutures. Perhaps it hadn't just been a bullet… Tenderly, he peeled the jumper and undershirt off of his torso and turned to look in the mirror. John froze again, his gray-hazel eyes wide and searching frantically across his reflected body.

His eyes traced the traditional Y autopsy cuts, the other little cuts over his torso, and as he tried to curl his fingers his right hand throbbed painfully. He opened his palm face up and tore his eyes from the mirror. There was a purpled and scabbing gash at the base of his thumb as well as a few other healed scars which made it hard to curl and move his hand. Looking back up, John felt his throat constricting in horror. He couldn't remember; he couldn't piece anything together. There were just flashes and snippets, pieces and sounds.

Staggering back from the mirror, John felt his left leg quiver in pain then he was sinking to the ground a little too quickly. He grasped for the edge of the tub, gripping it as his body hit the floor painfully. He sucked in breath after breath; a quickened heartbeat overlapping with each inhale, forcing past each exhale, and his head was spinning. John coughed out a breath when his lungs started to fight against him. The shaking of the cough made his ribs feel as if they were shattering.

John knew he needed to calm down but he wasn't sure he could. Then two words entered his mind: Psychosomatic autopsy. Yes, if he'd had a psychosomatic limp last time he'd buggered off to Afghanistan, why not this? Perhaps war was not good for him. Perhaps he should never have left.

"Perhaps I'm dead…"  
John pushed off of the tub and used it to get to his feet. Ignoring the threads of fire spreading through his body he snatched his undershirt. Pulling that on over his head, he added trousers. He also managed to shut the water off. Habits couldn't be avoided even if he _was_ dead. Stumbling into his room on a bum leg, John grabbed the cane he'd kept for- well he wasn't sure why, and made his way out of the room. On the off chance that Sherlock was home, John needed to talk to him. If the man could see him and could confirm both life, and life with a psychosomatic autopsy fear, then John could sit down and breathe once more.

Going down the stairs hurt, a lot. His drive to discover his actual state of living-not-dead forced him down them fairly quickly though. His eyes searched the place, the kitchen first, then the couch. There he was. The man looked more like a pouting prat than ever before. "Sherlock." The word was meant to be strong, final, and holding. It wasn't. John's voice was cracked and leaking from it was vulnerability.

"Nice to see you've come to your senses and gotten yourself home. Isn't it proper conduct for a person to let their flatmate _know_ they weren't still gallivanting off at war?" Sherlock's voice was definitely strong- he was throwing a strop, John realized.

"I don't even know how I got back here, Sherlock. I was hoping _you_ could tell me that." John limped over to stand in front of the couch, looking down at him. Sherlock looked a mite thinner than before John had left. There were dark circles under his eyes and John could actually call his eyes _gray_. He didn't like it one bit.

Sherlock eyed the cane in his hand and frowned. Sitting up he tilted his head skyward enough to look John in the eyes. "Really now? Are you going to come home from every war with that bloody thing?" Sherlock proceeded to kick the cane out from John's hand.

Two things happened and one of them made John laugh. The other made him cringe. First, John felt his whole body tumbling for the ground again and he winced at the upcoming pain that would crash through his body. Secondly, it turned from a groan to a laugh when he saw the surprise on Sherlock's face. Never had John seen the man look so…so- defeated. Yes, that's what it was. Sherlock had been very wrong about the newest limp and the shock of it was painted on his face in a big 'O'.

"John? John!" Sherlock leapt from the couch and stalked around John, to get behind him. "Stop laughing and get up." Sherlock thrust his arms under John's armpits and hauled him upwards. For a man who looked to weigh maybe 130 pounds, he had incredible strength.

John went feet-wards as his hand scrambled to locate his fallen cane. He planted the thing firmly before Sherlock got a chance to let go of him and wrapped an arm around himself. His body was aching from too much action after an apparently not-so-nice encounter with a scalpel. "Sherlock, where have I been?" John asked turning his eyes over his shoulder to look at the man.

"That's a dull question, Afghanistan obvious-" Sherlock stopped and moved around John again. "You smell like a basement. And sterile medical cleaner…"

John nodded slowly, waiting with held breath for Sherlock to make some sort of guess at where he had been. When the man fell into silent contemplation, John turned around to face the man and let out his held breath. "Look," he said setting his cane to rest against his hip. His fingers went to the edge of his shirt and he pulled it up under his chin as carefully as he could.

Sherlock gasped, hands twitching until they were stuffed into the pockets of his pants. His eyes were traveling over the Y cut and rested low on John's belly. There was something there, in that look he was giving John; something more than repulsion.

"So?" John leaned his head forward slightly, chewing his bottom lip as he watched Sherlock.

"So…someone had a go with you." Sherlock moved forward, slowly pulling one hand out from his pockets, long fingers inching towards John's skin.

John held still, watching Sherlock's face. By all rights, John should be freaking out royally, but there was something about watching Sherlock that put most of John's fears off slightly to the side. He watched shifts of emotions, a stern concentration, and a pout of lips. When Sherlock's fingers finally touched down and brushed along the incision and stitch up of the medical cut, John shivered. Sherlock's fingers moved pensively over John's skin; John could do nothing more than hold as still as possible and just _feel_. Something was trying to push through in his mind, some memory of what had happened. He could see a flash of metal, could hear music, but couldn't really paint the whole image. "Sherlock," he whispered.

"Professional. Precise. No tearing, perhaps you weren't awake."

"I have a memory of seeing it…"

"Drugs then. Maybe. It's about three weeks old, by the healing." Sherlock stepped closer then crouched down, getting his eyes nearer to the cut.

John inhaled deeply, lilting his head upwards and closing his eyes. Sherlock was too close, his breath too warm. Even with the pain pulsing through John's body he was still able to feel a warm sensual stirring in himself. He gripped the cane until his knuckles were white then risked a glance down.

Sherlock brushed his fingers off of the Y cut and over John's belly. "You toned up while you were away." It was offhanded, but Sherlock's eyes took a watery, shifty shade back to their grayness. "Little cuts, angry. The edges are a bit torn. Not enough to suggest a serrated blade- scalpel most likely. Still professional, nothing too deep and not near anything vital." His eyes and fingers moved as if one, taking in every little detail of John's body. When he got to a cut on John's hip he tugged at the waist-line minutely and pulled back. "There's more."

"I'm not dropping trousers here in the open, thank you very much."

"Shall I shut the blinds?"

"Sherlock!"

"Bedroom then?"

"I'm simply not taking my trousers off for you."

"Oh, bad timing dears? I found this on the stoop Sherlock. It's- well I think it's written to John, but it includes your name." Mrs. Hudson held up a disc in a clear case. It had thick black lettering across the case.

Sherlock pushed up off of the floor and swept over to Mrs. Hudson. He snatched the disk, holding it up to read and frowned.

"What's it? Let me see." John pushed his cane into the ground and moved across the room towards Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. He held out his hand expectantly, patiently. The right one. It was quivering. John's eyes were on his hand now, watching it tremble, and only realized Sherlock was letting him have the disc when it touched his fingertips. He caught Sherlock's eyes, blinked a few times then pulled the disc to him. Looking down he read out loud, "John, don't worry, Sherlock will know the next step of the game. –J.M."

John's head snapped up to look at Sherlock and he jawed wordlessly for a few moments. He briefly heard Mrs. Hudson shutting the door to their flat, her soft footsteps padding away.

"Let me see it, John." Sherlock held out his hand again and took the disc, heading for his computer.

"Are you putting that in? What if it's…I don't know, a virus or something?" John caned his way back over to the couch where Sherlock was sitting. The laptop was flipped open and Sherlock was popping open the disc drive.

"It's a DVD John." Sherlock stuck it in and pushed the drive closed.

"So why on your computer? Why not the DVD player?"

"There's no camera on the wall behind us for Mycroft to see to what we're watching." Sherlock clicked the 'play' button when his DVD programme popped up.

It opened on a little breakfast nook with Jim Moriarty sitting in front of the camera. "Hello Sherlock! I do hope this gets to you before you deduce everything about John's whereabouts the last month." Moriarty grinned widely, shifting closer in the chair, and folding his hands before him. "There are a few things John would like to say to you, Sherlock. A few things John wants to show you. And John, if your memory is gone, it's just a side effect of the new drug I have. Terrible that it wasn't completely developed before I used it on you. In any case, hope you're watching, too! It would just be sad if I was the only one to remember our time together."

The camera clicked off and John looked over at Sherlock. "What is he on about?"

Sherlock pointed at the screen, at John strapped down on a table and Moriarty wielding a surgical needle.

Sitting on the couch, John felt his chest clench as he heard the miserable music that had been trying to break through his subconscious since he'd woken up. His eyes were glued to the computer screen as memories started to slowly re-piece themselves back together. He didn't really notice that his left hand had reached out next to him and settled on Sherlock's leg, squeezing it looking for comfort. He barely noticed the warmth of Sherlock's hand lying atop his, thumb running carefully back and forth over his knuckles.

The time was cut, showing only bits of what Moriarty did, only the very emotional bits of what John spewed. When the camera went dark again after John had said, "I won't ask you", John himself was shaking. His teeth were tightly grinding together and his fingers were now laced between Sherlock's.

Sherlock watched John's reaction to the disc from the corner of his eye. He could keep track of what was happening to both John on the camera and John here on the couch next to him. The petty anger he'd felt at finding John home without a word about it was replaced with something else. He wasn't sure what to call it, anger perhaps, but not directed at John. It was strong and it had him shifting closer to his flatmate. Sherlock had been the one to switch John's hand from his leg to his own hand as Sherlock's leg was starting to go numb.

A new scene started on the tape- John was back at the single chain looped to his neck, kneeling down, his whole body shaking.

"I don't remember this. The rest of it, I do. Clearly, but this-" John sounded distressed and Sherlock couldn't blame him.

Normally Sherlock liked creative criminals; they kept him on his toes, always thinking, always calculating. This though, made Sherlock's chest hurt. It was that same hurt that he had felt when the restless of John being gone had crept in. He resisted putting the heel of his palm to it and rubbing like he had so often in John's absence. Mycroft had gotten angry about the bruise he'd made.

"The drugs." Sherlock looked fully at John, watching his face tense as he watched some unfamiliar torture. Minutes passed and Sherlock was no longer putting much of his attention to the computer screen. He had the DVD, he could watch it later, when John was asleep. Right now he needed to measure how John was reacting, because this was instant, not recorded for him, and Sherlock would need to see each line, crease and shadow pass over John's face to determine what to do next.

"Kill me," the John on the computer screen said. His voice was burbling, throat obviously coated in his own blood. "Kill me, I deserve it…f-for leaving…him."

Sherlock shut the lid of the laptop with a quick snap and tightened his hand with John's. "You're an idiot for saying that."

John turned, mouth agape and fishing for words. His eyebrows knotted together and he said slowly, "Don't be like that, most people are."

Staring blankly for one second, Sherlock let out a burst of laughter. He tugged John's hand as he quieted down and placed a hand on John's face, running a thumb over his jaw line. "Yes, but you were normally more than idiot. You still surprise me."

"Why's that?" John was leaning into Sherlock's hand, the one on his face, and his off-hazel eyes, lazy color that they were, started to droop heavily.

Sherlock realized John was enjoying the touch. It surprised him, a little. Letting his hand remain there he smiled. "You're unpredictable. You should be having a break down, a right good strop about this, and yet here you are, sitting on the couch spouting quotes from me like nothing happened. You're not normal."

"Oh, and I suppose you're the expert on 'normal'?" John smiled, pulled his eyes back open, and sighed lightly.

"Certainly not; that would be boring." Sherlock got to his feet, snatched up the computer and tucked it to his chest. "I need to watch this again, get down some details. I'll get Mrs. Hudson to make you some tea and I'll be out in a while, all right?"

John's eyes suddenly became very alive, the color brightening and looking not so lazy any longer. "You're leaving me, out here? Alone?"

"Mrs. Hudson will be-"

"But Sherlock, I-"

"You don't want to watch this again-"

"I'll shut my eyes."

"The sound?"

"Use headphones."

"What's gotten into you, John?" Sherlock looked down at him as he sat on the edge of the couch, left hand having snatched up at the edge of Sherlock's button-down.

John looked up at him wordlessly, mouth pursed tightly. He swallowed, looked down at his lap, and let his hand fall away. "You're right, I'm being ridiculous. It's nothing, and don't send Mrs. Hudson up, I can make tea."

Sherlock stood in the limbo of moving away from John to watch the disc and staying to offer whatever sort of comfort a high functioning sociopath could offer another man. He cringed slightly thinking about the awkwardness of the latter situation. He took a few steps away from his flatmate and headed for the kitchen. "Fine, I'll make tea then." Sherlock moved to the stove and lifted the empty teapot. Filling it with water and turning the stove on, he placed the pot on the stovetop and turned back around, arms folded tightly across his chest. Silver eyes traveled up and down John and Sherlock felt the pain in his chest abating quickly as he took in the image of John lounging tiredly on the couch. He was resting with his back against the arm rest, face towards Sherlock in the kitchen. His legs were stretched long down the couch, arms lying lightly across his lap, and his lazy-gray-hazel eyes were staring into Sherlock's.

Closeness to others normally bothered Sherlock, but standing there, connected in some odd way through a caress of looks, he didn't feel any bad feelings in the least. There was some level of comfort in knowing that John was back, that his musky male scent would permeate back through the flat, and his heavy steps would fill the quiet space that Sherlock left between Violin sessions.

"I didn't know you actually knew how to make tea." John smiled at him, crookedly.

Sherlock 'tsshed' at him and frowned. "Of course I do. I had to fend for myself before you came along, John." Sherlock looked away, at the kettle for something to focus on. "And when you left."

He heard shifting on the couch and marked each sound as a particular movement; John was sitting up a little higher, defensively, and placing his arms around himself. "Sherlock, I'm sorry about that. I wasn't, er, thinking straight at that point. I know I shouldn't have left but at the time, I uh, well I didn't know what else to do."

Turning back around to look at John, Sherlock was about to yell about the stupidity of running off and picking up a gun to shoot your problems away but the look of John, so small and pained on the couch punched at the spot in his chest again. Raising his hand he dug the heel of his palm into his chest and rubbed again, feeling a slight thrum of pain from the remnants of a bruise. "I know," was all he remarked before the kettle went off. Turning on his heel, Sherlock lifted the teapot and poured boiling water into two large teacups. When the tea was finished steeping, he brought both cups into the sitting room and placed one down where John was reclining.

"Thank you." John's voice was barely a mumble as he was obviously caught up in thought.

Sherlock twisted his lips in thought as he settled uncomfortably onto the couch. "Do you want to talk about it?" Sherlock really didn't want this to happen as he wouldn't know what to say. He could mutter something along the lines of, 'I'm sorry you were tortured as a way to get to me' but he wasn't sure that would actually be beneficial to either of them.

John looked at Sherlock, the cup of tea, then to his own shaking hand. "Not particularly." Ever the steadfast soldier.

Sherlock watched him sit up, take the teacup into his hands and sip from it. He closed his eyes for a beat then set it back down and swallowed the warm liquid. Sherlock watched him ease back into the couch and they sat in silence, the computer whirring softly in protest to being snapped shut suddenly and the empty CD case sitting like a taunt between laptop and teacup.

The problem with the passage of days of time is that Sherlock gets bored, and very quickly when there isn't a case to work on. Sure, he had his papers to write, his experiments to notate, but with John back there should have been a little more. Now, John mostly stayed quiet, studying this bit of medical journal, or checking on the healing of that wound of his. Sherlock had to fill his time with the violin much more often. He even wrote out a few pages of a concerto he was in the middle of. Granted he'd waded up and thrown two of them away as rubbish nearly as quickly as finishing them, but he'd done them none-the-less. And after a week had passed with no upswing in John, Sherlock decided he needed to study something much more personal, much more _John_.

John stood at the stove, one hand clenching his cane tightly. His knuckles were white from the strain. The other hand rested on a teapot. Sherlock stood back observing. John planted his cane firmly and put his weight to that side. Lifting the teapot off of the hot stove, he moved it above the teacups. Sherlock noted that his movements were still militarily exact, just slower considering the injuries. The he heard the dripping of water into cups, two evenly, and watched John set the teapot back down. He seemed unaware of having an observer.

Sherlock smiled watching the familiar routine with unfamiliar elements laced within. When John turned around with a cup of tea, Sherlock remained standing- just watching. He noted the tightening of John's arm as the man caned across the room towards him. Sherlock didn't reach out for the cup that he was offered, but instead, continued to watch. He watched John hold the cup out, the tag of the tea bag hanging down one side. Then Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's mouth marking it as it turned down in a slight frown. Silver eyes moved up to John's eyes, flicking from Sherlock to the tea cup and back.

Finally Sherlock reached out and took the cup between his hands and pulled it towards himself. He turned away in flurry of his robe, perching on his couch. He set his tea next to the computer before flicking the screen up with a _pop_ and started typing away. A password, then Science of Deduction and he was entering a new post. It was on movement. On a change in movement. Sherlock realized as soon as he started typing that every image in his head is of John before and after. Mainly after. He realized his post is on John Watson.

He paused briefly; glancing towards his subject he takes in John's slow advance over the threshold and into the main room. Turning his attentions to the computer once more, Sherlock continues with a thickly studious expression. By the time he finished, his tea was cold, barely touched. John was seated comfortably in his chair, cane resting on the side of his bad leg. The paper was folded neatly so he could read each article easily. His tea cup was empty next to him.

Sherlock liked the familiarity because he could think again. The clutter that invaded his brain during periods of 'boring' wasn't so loud. Sherlock's thoughts were clearly laid out in his mind. He could go from observation to conclusion without being muddled by steps in between once more. He knows this was because of John and he felt like he owed the man something. Something in return for the clearness he presents to Sherlock. He knows John depends on his mobility, on the ability to do things. He knows if John remains in this state he is in- broken- that John will go mad. As John is, even in Sherlock's presence, he will find life lacking. He needs to come with Sherlock; to go to cases, to complete something in life. Merely sitting tea sipping isn't satisfying enough. Sherlock knows tea sipping is reserved for a celebration of a victory. It's a pleasure at end of long day. A slight reward for job well done. Tea sipping isn't time consuming. It's a settling of the nerves just as Sherlock's drugs and violin playing are not things to be done just get done, but done with reason, a purpose.

Sherlock felt the need to return this ability to John. He may not have been able to stop Moriarty but he could possibly erase the remnants of the experience from John's brain. Sherlock could create new associations for the sensations John felt under the tending of Moriarty. First, Sherlock had to prove that John had post-traumatic associations with things such as the dark, or blades, or music.

Getting to his feet, Sherlock closed the blinds. He could hear the paper fold as John turned to watch what Sherlock was doing. He didn't look at John as he continued across the room and put his hand on the light switch. At this time of night he knew it would be quite dark. Putting his eyes on John now, who was planted quite fixedly in his chair, Sherlock flicked the light switch plunging them both into darkness. The first thing Sherlock heard was rough ruffling of paper as John threw it away from him. He heard the clack of a cane being planted firmly on the ground. John's erratic breathing spiked. Sherlock thought perhaps he could even hear John's heart thud desperately, aching to get out, to get away. Then John spoke and Sherlock paused, sucking in a breath, holding it till he was sure he could hear each of John's syllables.

"Sherlock please pu-put the light back on. Sherlock the light." Sherlock turned it on as John requested; turning his eyes on the man, Sherlock studied his body language. John's good leg was tense and the muscles in his shoulders were constricting from the tight grip he had on the armchair. He looked ready to spring, to fly, to escape.

Sherlock wondered how many other sensations, how many associations, and experiences will be linked with Moriarty. He couldn't just jump into this. He couldn't just tie John down and force him to succumb to the change of association. Sherlock had to carefully study the DVD of John's torture and see what each association he could be. Then Sherlock needed to find a substitution for each traumatic effect and cleverly, subtly talk John into allowing Sherlock to experiment on him. He knew that John hardly said no, that getting him to say yes would be, in a way, easy. But he also knew after Moriarty, John would be much more wary. So Sherlock mumbled an apology, snatched his laptop and the DVD that had been next to it since John returned. He dashed to his room shutting himself away from John, away from emotional stimulus. Sherlock needed to contemplate, deduce, and plan if he wanted this to work. He had to do this perfectly.

And so he sat for days, at his computer watching the recording…writing… scribbling- typing, listening. Planning. John only tried to interrupt two or three times. He managed to get a plate of food and a water bottle in the second day. He mumbled about the smell Sherlock will have clinging to him after too many days. Sherlock knows he wouldn't let Sherlock stay much longer than the three days he'd already taken up with only one plate of food and one water bottle keeping him company. Three days is all he needed- he knew what he would do, what he had to ask, and he sort of knew how he'd go about it.

While Sherlock was good at manipulating most people, John Watson was always a little unpredictable especially with the current events of his life. Sherlock was starting to wonder if he _could_ manipulate him. John had been getting better at catching Sherlock in plots or figuring out what he was thinking. John was a rare man. John was a broken man. Sherlock wanted his John back. What point was there of John being home if it wasn't actually _John Watson_.


	6. Chapter 6

A.N. - Just a quick chapter to start me off on this one again. Had to get my head back into it and this will help hopefully. Sorry for the delay.

* * *

"You're strong," Sherlock voiced.

Though John knew it was a statement, he answered anyway. "Yes…" His voice was drawn out and his eyes narrowed.

"I'd like you to subject yourself to a few days of my experimenting. You did say yesterday that you had a lot to make up for now that you're back." Sherlock had his fingers steepled as he stared at the ceiling.

John walked over to the couch to look down at him. He was feeling physically better though he still had to use the cane. John wondered briefly if he'd ever be emotionally healed after the life he'd chosen to lead. "Is it case related?" he asked trying to catch Sherlock's eyes. It seemed a futile attempt, what with them being closed and all.

"No. I just finished a case."His tone was, well, demeaning.

"Personal then," John mused. "All right, for what?" He eased into his chair since Sherlock wasn't giving him a glance anyways.

"Obviously, follow along John."

"For what, then? I'm not going to agree to just anything, especially from you." John grabbed his phone and looked through it, hoping his texts would give him some sort of a distraction from the mild frustration with Sherlock.

Just when John was about to look up and demand an answer from Sherlock, his phone buzzed alerting him to a message. It read: _For you, John._ "Sherlock, what have I requested about texting from the same room? Unless you're in one of your _moods_, which you don't really seem to be, speak to me. You know, like a human being." John tossed his phone aside and then fully registered what he'd read. "What do you mean by 'for me' anyway?"

"Honestly, I don't know _how_ you follow along with most conversation." Sherlock sat upright on the couch, feet on the ground and body leaning towards John. "But do try to keep up with this one. I want to experiment on you, I'd like your permission, and I'd also like your trust as this is for you."

John stared at the man for a few long beats. When his heart thudded slowly against his chest for the fifth time he drew in a noisy breath and nodded. "All right then, what would you like me to do?"

Sherlock pushed up off of the couch and looked towards the stairs. "We should go upstairs. I'll meet you there; first I have to talk with Mrs. Hudson about interruptions." Sherlock flounced away, bathrobe following along gaily.

Twisting his lips in confusion and thought, John finally decided it was fine. He did trust Sherlock, after all, despite putting up a fight. Mainly, he wanted to know what the man was planning. Grabbing his cane he made his way up the stairs, slowly, and into his room. Since he wasn't sure what he would be doing, he decided to sit at the edge of his bed and wait for Sherlock's instructions. He was actually very curious about what was going to happen. While he'd often helped Sherlock with experiments, John had never really been _the_ experiment. He scratched at the back of his head with his right hand, his gun hand, and tensed a little. It had healed up nicely and as he looked at it, he noted the nerve damage couldn't be much. It didn't stop the bloody thing from trembling whenever he gave it any sort of attention. John wondered if there was a name for the psychological problem he had. Boredom, Sherlock called it. _Maybe mixed with stupidity,_ he could hear the man continue. Shaking his thoughts away he listened to the footsteps making their way up the stairs pretty rapidly.

Sherlock popped into the room carrying rope and handcuffs. John felt his heart thunder painfully. "What are we doing with those?"

Sherlock shut the door behind him, ignoring John for the moment. He locked the door, set the rope and cuffs on the desk next to the bed and walked over to the dresser. John watched him open the top drawer where John kept a rather thorough medical kit. Sherlock was working quietly and quickly while John tried to keep himself under control.

Once the blinds were closed, the medical kit was opened next to the cuffs and ropes, and Sherlock was setting his iPod up on the speakers John had for his own, the man turned to look at John. "Take your shirt off."

"Whatever for?" John asked eyeing the instruments and then Sherlock warily.

"Trust, John. We're going to need it." Sherlock was planted firmly at the end of the bed, arms folded over his chest, and silver eyes set on John's gray-hazel ones.

With a sigh, John tugged the jumper and button-down off of himself. When he looked back up at Sherlock the man had shed his robe and was rolling the sleeves of his black button-down up. John ran his hands down the Y-cut on his torso, trying to push away self-conscious thoughts that would have him scrambling for his shirt once more.

"Good, now move up the bed, to the headboard." Sherlock was walking around to the table that held the rope, cuffs and kit.

As John shimmied up the bed to the headboard, he watched his flatmate grabbing the handcuffs. Silver eyes swung around to John's wrists.

Instead of resting back like Sherlock had expected from John, the man vaulted to the other side of the bed and stumbled on his legs nearly falling to the floor. "No Sherlock, I think this is a rubbish idea. Let's stop playing around, I don't like it."

Sherlock sighed and put the handcuffs back down. "John, I want to help you. I can't do that if you won't allow me to."

"Help me? With those?" John eyed the handcuffs and shuddered a little.

"Yes with _these_. Honestly, John I'm just looking for a little faith from the one person who used to have it regarding me." Sherlock sat slowly on the edge of the bed and watched John with a cool, calm precision.

That look was one John didn't recognize. He'd never seen the man use it during his experiments, or at a crime scene, or even direct it at the telly. It was new, fierce, and directed at John. So John froze and took a few deep breaths. The man was right. No point in him being home if he wouldn't trust Sherlock. There was certainly no reason he shouldn't, now that he thought long and hard about it. Then again, John did leave a sociopath…

Taking a few ginger steps to the bed, John climbed up and slowly sat back against the headboard. "Here?"

"Arms over your head." There was no please with Sherlock, no polite questions, just direction but his voice was soft. He didn't need the please as it rested in his tone.

Lifting his arms up, John had to slouch to let Sherlock loop the handcuff chain around the post and to John's other hand securing him to the headboard. Then the rope was pulled out and Sherlock stood at the end of the bed.

"Spread your legs, John."

John shivered, slowly spread his legs apart so that his ankles stretched out towards the posts at the end of the bed. Sherlock's hands were slightly cold as they wrapped easily around each ankle, roping them to the posts. He was quick and gentle with John.

Once John was secure to the bed, Sherlock moved away from him and over to the iPod. John tried to take everything in quickly and he wondered if the influence was more military or Sherlock's doing. The room was warm enough, the only lighting from a lamp on the desk, the flat was quiet, and then music started to play. Jazz music from Sherlock's iPod. Though the setting was different, the familiarities involved started to bring back snippets of John's time with Moriarty. He snapped his teeth together, trying to keep a calm composure. This was Sherlock, not Jim. This was home, nowhere else. All of this…all of this was okay.

Sherlock turned from the dresser and iPod and walked over to the edge of the bed. He stood there, looking down at John and the corners of his lips pulled up in the slightest hint of a smile. Those silver eyes bore down intensely and wandered over John's body.

Sherlock didn't want to go slow, but the look in John's eyes was one between fight and flight. Buried beneath those gray-hazel depths, Sherlock thought he detected trust, but this wasn't going to be an easy thing. Sherlock would have to be careful and read John's body language. Sherlock could facial cues and the like just fine, knowing how to act upon them was sometimes the big question. It was harder to do with a relationship that he cared about, one in which he cared how the other actually felt about Sherlock. This experiment would test them both and hopefully be good for them both.

Picking up the small knife in the medical kit, Sherlock climbed up onto the bed and straddled John's hips. The bed dipped with their weight, pulling the consulting detective very tightly against the doctor. Sherlock leaned down and put his lips to his ear. "Trust, John." His voice was barely a whisper and he felt the man underneath him shiver.

"Yeah," John breathed out and the breath tickled Sherlock's neck.

Sitting up and putting the blade against the side of John's cheek, Sherlock actually smiled. "I'm glad you're home. I don't blame you either, John. I understand."

"I left you, Sherlock. Of course you blame me." John's eyes flickered to the knife, trying to get a look at it. The angle was too low, Sherlock knew. He was keeping it that way on purpose.

Dragging the blade down over John's chest, following the Y-cut on his torso, Sherlock shook his head. "No, I want to hear you say it. I want you to tell me that you know I understand why you left. I want you to say that I don't blame you for leaving." The knife traced up and down, up and down, never cutting just playing over his ruined skin.

_It's not ruined. It's delicious. Amazing. Beautiful._ Sherlock froze his thoughts, blinking a few times, but never stopping his hand. John was twitching under him, twisting every now and then trying to get the blade away from his skin.

"It's my fault." John closed his eyes and took a few, deep, steadying breaths.

"No it's not." Sherlock pressed the blade a little harder, not breaking skin. He didn't want John to bleed; he didn't want to hurt him.

The music quieted for a few seconds and moved onto the next song. A female singer started in with an upbeat, improvisational jazz song. Sherlock leaned down and put his lips to the meeting point of the Y on John's chest. He kissed it lightly and let his lips follow the trail of the knife.

"Sherlock!" John gasped. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Fixing you, John. Now tell me it wasn't your fault." Sherlock kissed his way back up to the shoulder with the old bullet wound.

He didn't say it, not yet anyway, and Sherlock continued tracing each little cut, scrape, and bruise with his knife. He could see gooseflesh rise on John's skin and couldn't help adding kisses, nips, and little dashes of his tongue across the same healing wounds.

On the sixth time that Sherlock dragged the knife down the Y-cut, he heard John muttering. Looking up he found the man's eyes closed, his eyebrows drawn in intently, and his lips moving to something that he was trying to say.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock's lips were to John's ear again. He felt the doctor shudder and jolt upwards as far as the restraints would allow. He very nearly bucked Sherlock off of him.

John's eyes snapped open and he looked into Sherlock's silver eyes. "It wasn't my fault. You understand."

Sherlock smiled and climbed off of the bed. Glancing at the clock he dropped the knife on the bed and scrambled over to the desk. Picking up a pen and pulling out a notebook from the drawer, he scribbled down 'two hours'. "Good. Let's have some tea, shall we?"


	7. Chapter 7

(A/N- Hey all, sorry for the long absence on this one. This chapter is shorter but getting my head wrapped back around it. Hope you enjoy despite how short it is.)

Sitting down for tea after what had just happened, John wasn't sure how to feel. He watched Sherlock putting the kettle on the stove and rooting around for a certain kind of tea, while he just sat. Normally it was his job to make the tea, but Sherlock had insisted.

John felt tired anyway, and hugged himself which pulled the jumper taut around him. It felt good. Comforting. His mind was in a sort of limbo between bliss and confusion. Then Sherlock started talking. John wasn't completely sure what about as he was only half listening but it wasn't the words he needed- the mere sound of the man's voice was a comfort.

He felt relaxed now that he had a cup of tea, his favorite chair, and the sound of the violin from under Sherlock's fingers. When the music stopped and John's tea was gone, he looked over at his flatmate curiously.

"You're still extraordinary at that, Sherlock." John gave him a smile, gun hand absently rubbing along his chest.

"Thank you, John. I have to say it will be nice to have someone who appreciates my genius back around." Sherlock stood up, placed his violin on the couch behind him and stepped onto then over the table, coming to a crouch in front of John. "Let's go back upstairs now, hmm?" he asked grabbing John's tea cup and setting it aside.

John looked hesitant but didn't resist the tea cup being taken away from him. "Sherlock, I'm not sure why you're-"

"For you. How many times do we have to go over this?" Sherlock took one of John's hands and hauled him upwards, leading him up to John's room. "Trust, John."

John took a few deep breaths and nodded. "Yes, I trust you."

Sherlock pulled out the rope again, wrapping it around his forearm. His voice was that gentle caressing tone once more. "Shirt."

John pulled the shirt off of himself and tossed it onto the back of his desk chair. Sherlock pointed to the chair so John tossed the shirt onto the desk and sat down in the chair himself. He watched Sherlock unwinding the rope and approaching. His heart was starting to hammer heavily, sweat beading on his forehead. He blinked heavily, eyes falling nearly shut as the rope came around his neck.

Sherlock draped it around John's neck, crossing it and tightening it against his throat but not enough to cut off his breathing. He watched John carefully, noting the quick heave of his chest and the beading across his crinkled forehead. He was keeping composure but just barely. Sherlock leaned in and put his face inches from John's, waiting until his dull-hazel eyes opened for him.

When they were eye to eye, Sherlock smiled. "It's alright John. I love you." He tightened the rope a bit. His body was so close to John's but not touching.

John blinked in shock, his mouth gaping with unspoken words of confusion.

Sherlock just smiled and walked around behind John. He tugged the rope again as he bent and put his lips to John's hairline, just above the rope. "That's right. Everything is good." Sherlock's free hand reached around and covered John's eyes so he couldn't see anything. "It's alright John. I'm here."

John's chest was rising and falling quickly. He jerked his head a little, trying to get his eyes free. "Sherlock, please, stop."

He was relentless though, his hand steadfast on John's eyes and the rope caressing John's neck. The rope ends dangled down across John's chest and Sherlock's breath played across the little hairs at the best of his neck with each whispered, "I love you." When it was almost too much, when John thought he was going to burst, John stopped and held completely still.

He quieted himself so that there wasn't the bursting beat of his heart pounding in his ears, to where the rope was slack and still against the skin of his throat, to where the hand covering his eyes was barely a weight at all but more of a whisper of a touch. And then everything was gone from him all at once. Sherlock had taken the rope away, his hand away, and his breath away. John sighed and arched backwards, searching for his touch. "Come back…" he whispered.

Sherlock heard his whisper and before he could crave again, Sherlock was straddling John's lap, careful not to put too much weight on his bum leg. "I'm here, John. I'm always here."

He watched John's eyelashes lazily draw upwards and dull-gray-hazel eyes looked up at him. John let out a warm breath and leaned forward, his head falling to the center of Sherlock's chest. His hands, free, found themselves upwards and entangled in Sherlock's shirt.

"You could have stopped me. I did not bind your hands." Sherlock put a hand on the back of John's head, keeping him there, keeping him still.

John gasped and tried to pull back, his hands wrapping tighter in Sherlock's shirt. When he realized the man wasn't letting him go he settled again and let his tension ease away. "Why are you doing this?"

"You know John. Say it." Sherlock rested his chin on the top of John's head, hearing the echoing of the video-tape in their actions. Sherlock never gave of himself, but he wanted all of his being to go to John now.

Sherlock felt John's jaw ticking with jawing, wordlessness, and he let his eyes fall shut, waiting to hear him say it. "You love me."

As soon as the words were spoken, Sherlock got up and leaned against the desk away from John. "What of you, John? How do you feel about being back here?"

John sat back against the chair, eyes soft and composure strong. "I don't really blame you, you know." John gripped the edge of the chair and looked at the light from the lamp, eyes spotting with the brightness. "I thought it was you I was upset with, but it was me. M-" John swallowed hard. "I don't think Moriarty understood my reasoning either."

Sherlock pushed off of the desk with a growl. "Don't say his name!"

Pulling back away from him, John gripped the chair hard, watching the sudden outburst. "Alright," he said quickly. He watched Sherlock settling back down. "What was that about?"

Drawing his lips down in a frown, Sherlock shrugged. "Nothing, you're mine, not his."

John watched silently until he couldn't help but laugh. "I'm yours you say?" He stood up from the chair, his leg slightly shaky since he didn't have his cane to lean upon. "How do you figure that?"

"Didn't I tell you that I love you? Isn't that what love is, belonging to someone?" Sherlock was quite serious and John quieted down.

He moved forward and put his hands to the side of Sherlock's face, studying it in the lamp light. Deep shadows played across his features, amplifying them and making each curve more accentuated. He looked like a God in this light and John was momentarily mesmerized. "You're right, I do belong to you. That's why I couldn't stay away." He sighed and moved back, letting his hand fall away from Sherlock. Moving towards the bed, he sat on the edge and looked at the cuffs and ropes, the iPod he hadn't realized was playing, and the lamp, keeping his eyes everywhere but on Sherlock. Finally he forced them back to the man and smiled. "I'm tired, Sherlock."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Fine." He gathered the things from John's room and switched off the music.

John sank back into the bed when Sherlock shut the door. He let his eyes close and he fell into a deep sleep.

Waking up, John wasn't sure how long he'd slept. He groped in the dark for his phone but found he couldn't actually move. He jerked his hands and found them tied tightly. He couldn't see, a fabric over his eyes, and suddenly his body was aching. _Oh God!_ John thought in a panic. It hadn't been real, everything he'd thought happening with Sherlock hadn't been real, it had been a dream, and now he was waking up back in the hands of Moriarty. Jerking his arms hard, trying to break the bonds, curling his hurt leg up, John cried out angrily. Moving upwards on the bed, he could move his arms enough to feel his chest.

It was cut open, he knew it. And a hotness was running down him, his blood pouring forth and out of him in waves. He was gone; this was the part where Moriarty would film his death and send the tape off to Sherlock.

Sherlock, who in his sociopathic tendencies would find this as a challenge and nothing more. Sherlock who had changed John in ways he wasn't sure of.

Sherlock- who had told John he loved him.

He had to be home, with that man. The one who wanted him, loved him, had put his lips to John's skin and whispered secrets for only them.

The reality was Sherlock, not Moriarty. So John settled down and took deep breaths, waiting and listening. "Sherlock?" he asked softly.

A door opened and it sounded too much like the basement door. There was no light that he could see. Sherlock was slipping away from him again and John was lost.


	8. Chapter 8

(A/N- I had a second story and a different end to this "Consciously Drawing You". While I'd still like to do a follow up of this story line, I didn't like where the other was going. I'll be reworking it eventually and for now we'll just keep the ending of Psychosomatic universe as is in this chapter. Also, lyrics in this belong to Mumford and Sons)

Sherlock looked in at John tied to the bed, sitting up and running his hands frantically over his chest. John called out for him and Sherlock froze. He thought he'd been making such great progress but here was his John Watson, in a state of chaotic panic.

Going to the edge of the bed and sitting down, Sherlock gently shushed him, putting a hand to his head and running his long fingers through John's hair. "John, everything's alright. You're here and you're still mine."

He settled down, easing back into the headboard, mouth still open with breath slightly quick. But at least he was settling. Sherlock leaned closer breathing in the warm scent of John and ever so slowly put his lips to John's ear. "You're a good man, John Watson." Sherlock's fingers danced their way up his arm to the base of his thumb, stroking it like he would when picking at his violin strings. John's hand was twitching, jumping, and he pulled away slightly.

"I can't see you, Sherlock." John sounded close to panic once more and Sherlock pulled back.

The point wasn't to push him too far. "Yes, just feel."

John's breath stuck in his throat for a moment at the raspy sensual tone from Sherlock's voice. He'd often thought of him as a non-sexual being; to hear such lust dripping from each word he spoke to John had the doctor twisting in ways that were not unpleasant.

Sherlock watched John for minutes, a silence of breathing resting between them. His mind was racing with this sick closeness between them and with what he was going to ask of John and himself. Kneeling on the bed once more, he put his lips to the satin blindfold just over John's eyes, planting soft kisses on each on. He moved down, their breath mixing tangibly with not but milimetres between them. "John…" He was asking.

It was John who closed the distance, seeming to look for that comfort of touch that would distract from the loss of his sight. Sherlock pressed his lips back and brought his fingers back up to John's gun hand, dancing across his calloused skin- a glide of silk over practiced skin.

Sherlock pulled back and away, breaking their mixing of sensitive skin and wet caress. He climbed from the bed and went back to the iPod, hitting play.

_Rip the earth in two with your mind__  
__Seal the urge which ensues with brass wires__  
__I never meant you any harm__  
__But your tears feel warm as they fall on my forearm_

John tilted his head and Sherlock watched as John listened to the lyrics of the song. He didn't stay away for long, re-perching on the bed and reaching up for the blindfold. He tugged it slowly, letting the silk slip away from John's eyes. They were closed and John looked content in such a way that Sherlock had to stare for a few heartbeats. This was his John- the one under control and safe here with Sherlock.

"You're a good man, John Watson."

_But close my eyes for a while__  
__Force from the world a patient smile_

John's eyes slowly peeled open and dull-hazel blinked lazily at Sherlock. "You kissed me."

Sherlock frowned, that upside down twist of annoyance when someone wasn't seeing what was 'obvious' to him. "You're aptitude at pointing out the completely obvious and least helpful details has remained with you, dear Watson."

If he hadn't been chained to the bed, in a mix of content and rushing feelings, John would have laughed. "Thank you. How about we let me go now? Surely you're done with your experiments?"

Sherlock looked at him flatly and reached up, grabbing the hand that had been tortured with needles and knives, the hand that John so religiously lived by, and it jolted then shook. "I want to fix you, John, don't you see? It was my fault that he got his hands on you and I want to fix it all."

John gasped from the shock of the grasp and panted, watching Sherlock's face turn from serene concentration to something primal and dangerous. John thought at first that what was suddenly in him was fear but that quickly was replaced by some other feeling he couldn't quite place. "Sherlock…it's not your fault."

"Sure it is. I made you 'not good', didn't I? Perhaps they were right." Sherlock let go of John's hand and sagged away.

Pulling against the rope that held him to the bed, John tried to get closer to the man. "Sherlock, it's not your fault. I don't blame you."

Sherlock moved before John could do much more than gawk and then his bonds were loose, his hands falling back to his sides.

_Awake my soul_

_Awake my soul_

_How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes_

_I struggle to find any truth in your lies__  
__And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know__  
__This weakness I feel I must finally show_

John sat there, watching Sherlock leave the room, and leave John. Sherlock was right- John wasn't back to normal yet and his leaving hurt in a way John knew it shouldn't. He got up and shut the iPod off, not caring for the lyrics to be playing in his head.

Standing in the middle of his room, John settled his weight between his two legs, a little shaky without his cane. He outstretched his hand before him and watched it in the dusty sunlight from his window. It was shaking and faint scarred pricks shone whitely before his eyes. He flipped it over so he was looking at the back of his hand and it still shook. Grimacing, he limped over to his desk and grabbed the cane that leaned against it. He needed to get to his gun but the panic in his chest was making his leg hurt worse and he wouldn't make it across the room to his bedside table without the damned cane. Getting tight in his other hand, he wiped the shaking gun hand down his hip and thigh, as if he could rub the tremor out of it.

Cane-ing his was to the bedside table, he pulled open the drawer and looked down at the black gun sitting tightly inside. It was loaded, he knew that much. Lifting it up he felt that familiar weight, the bulk that sat neatly in his hand, he held out his hand once more. Still it shook and John let out a hiss of annoyed air. Shaking his head and dropping his arm he was about to put everything away and go for a walk when Sherlock came bursting back through.

"We've got a case, doctor." His eyes went to John's hand. "Oh good, you've got your gun. Let's go." Sherlock turned without a word of explanation and left John's door open.

Eyes wide with surprise, John stood dumbly for a moment until Sherlock yelled from downstairs. "Hurry, John!"

Stuffing the gun in his waistband at his lower back, John limped out, leaning a little less heavily on his cane. Going down the stairs at so quick a pace had John's leg thrumming with an aching pain. Sherlock was already in his coat and holding out John's. Taking it and slipping it on swiftly, John followed the detective out of the flat and onto the walk. John glanced both ways for a taxi or for Lestrade. Seeing neither he noted that Sherlock was already rushing away.

Picking up a quick pace to catch him, John was shortly beside him. "So, where are we going?"

"Client. Few streets down." Sherlock, hands tucked in his pockets and pulling the jacket taut across his chest, looked at John's leg. "It's alright?"

John looked at it as well. "Uh, yeah. For now." He looked up at Sherlock with a pursing of lips that drew neat lines around the sides of them. "What client?"

"Just a client. Come on, she's expecting us." Sherlock pulled out his phone and passed it over to John. "Send something for me?"

John took it in the hand that was not holding the cane, not noting how still it was. He clicked it on, watching the screen brighten to a new text area. "Alright. What should I write?"

"Stay put. He may have a gun. Bringing some help." Sherlock didn't look at him though John had paused in his walking at the words and stared daftly at his back. "Keep up, John. This could be interesting."

Coughing and walking quickly to catch up, John typed out the words with one hand and handed it back. "Here, now mind telling me what we're about to just stroll right into?"

"Not particularly. Just pull the gun if someone tries to shoot me." Sherlock turned down another sidewalk and stood in front of a new set of apartments. "Ah, here we are. Let's go, Doctor." He climbed up the steps and into the front door.

John followed after, shaking his head. He put the cane down solidly and stepped up without regard to pain his leg. Shutting the door behind him, his hand shook slightly. Sherlock was already up another set of stairs and opening the door to an apartment. He stepped in, leaving the door wide open. John went up the stairs, slightly out of breath from the effort he hadn't put on his body since the war. The most recent trip to the war. He sighed and halfway up the steps froze.

"John! Your gun!" Sherlock yelled from the flat and something loud and heavy crashed from that room.

The cane fell from his hands and his gun hand wrapped around the hard metal, fingers grasping in a familiar way around the butt end. His forefinger lay across the trigger lightly but still ready to pull if he needed. Jogging up the stairs, fire running through the veins in his leg, John entered the room gun first. He held out his hands, eyes searching and a hand came down atop his and the gun. A familiar hand with long silk fingers. John looked over into silver eyes and raised an eyebrow, breathing heavily. "The hell was that, Sherlock?"

"Your hands are not shaking John." Sherlock looked down at them and so did John.

He was right, the hands wrapped around the service piece were still as stone and the pain in his leg had not stopped him from getting here. "You…and your brother…" John took in a deep breath. "All of it, London…I don't know what I'm going to do with all of you. By all rights, I should be damned well dead." John put the gun away and turned to go out of the room. "You owe me dinner, Sherlock. And a proper date if you think you're going to kiss me again."

Five months later

John woke up with a start and a yelp, glancing around a dark room and feeling panic rise in his chest, blocking his throat. He couldn't see. He couldn't tell where he was. What if he was back there, with…

"John. Come here," Sherlock said from next to him, reaching a hand up to caress his shoulder. "It's cold, please come back down here."

Easing back, John curled back into Sherlock, his voice chasing away another night mare. "It's getting better. First one in weeks, Sherlock."

"Mm, I know. If they go forever does that mean I have to stop sleeping here?" Sherlock's breath danced over the little hairs on the back of John's neck.

"If you stop sleeping here, I'll have the dreams again." John turned around so he could look into the eyes of silver and get a gentle kiss from a sociopath's tender lips. His sociopath.

They'd beaten the odds, John figured. Whatever those odds were exactly. They'd beaten them and gone against the "they", not matter how people may have looked down on their methods.


End file.
